


The Prism and the Pendulum

by deaths



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-02-10 00:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18649162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deaths/pseuds/deaths
Summary: Aerith dies. She dies again, and again, and again. She'll keep dying until she gets it right — whether she wants to or not.





	1. I. Caliginosa

**Author's Note:**

> → ff7’s timeline of events throughout the game can get a little funky, and although i tried my best to make it faithful where it needs to be, i’m sure i made some mistakes. please feel free to point out any discrepancies and i’ll rectify them quickly! likewise, many of ff7’s plot and thematic elements aren’t really explained, and it’s not immediately clear as to what’s possible and impossible in canon. i humbly request your suspension of disbelief, but if there are truly glaring errors or inconsistencies, please point them out to me so i can revisit them.  
> → the only compilation material this story takes into account is crisis core.  
> → i will make a good faith attempt to post new chapters at least every other wednesday, but updates may be more frequent or infrequent depending on circumstances.

_“It’s so dark...my chest hurts. Where am I?”_

_“You no longer walk the Planet.”_

_“Oh, I see. So I’m dead, then.”_

_“Yes, for the moment.”_

_“For the moment?”_

_“It is not your time.”_

* * *

“Aerith!”

Tifa’s voice snaps her from her slumber. Languidly, Aerith opens her eyes, taking in the dim, orange glow of candlelight in the corner of the room. The stale scent of pine lingers in the room’s musty air.

She’s standing over her, her hand on Aerith’s shoulder, as she frowns, brows knit together in concern.

“What’s wrong?” Aerith mumbles. She sits up in bed and brushes errant knots of hair from her face. Barret and Tifa exchange concerned glances.

“You were thrashing around in your sleep. I was worried…” Tifa says, trailing off.

Aerith brings a hand up to her temple; it’s damp and cold, as is the rest of her body. The center of her chest throbs with each heartbeat. Even though it was a nightmare, the pain had been excruciatingly real, tangible — crippling. Not just the pain, either, but the wet warmth of blood gushing forth from the wound as she slumped over. The stark ice of steel jutting out of her. The clang of materia bouncing off the floor, ricocheting against the walls, echoing until the sound receded at last.

“Drink up,” Barret says abruptly, thrusting a water canteen into her hands. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Aerith accepts — perhaps too eagerly — and downs the water ravenously. The cool sensation is welcome against her parched lips.

Tifa plops herself down at the foot of the bed and leans toward her. “So, you had a bad dream, I’m guessing.”

She nods, wondering if she looks as fraught as she feels. She sets the water canteen down on the nightstand and reaches for the hairbrush in her satchel. The contents of her nightmare begin to dissipate, leaving little behind but the ghost of a certain image: the vision of Cloud’s tormented face as he extended his hand toward her as she went limp. She gnaws the inside of her lip as she combs through her hair, yanking on the stubborn knots.

“Well? What was it about?” Tifa asks.

“I don’t really remember, to tell you the truth.” It’s a white lie, Aerith tells herself. Tifa would be better off not knowing what happened. All of them would. “I just remember it feeling very real.”

Tifa holds her chin between her fingers, lifting an eyebrow. Barret folds his arms across his chest. Neither of them believe her. She isn’t in a position to disagree with their scrutiny.

“You sure about that?” he asks.

Aerith nods, though she knows for a fact that the act lacks conviction. She avoids their gaze and continues brushing through her hair in an effort to busy her hands. It seems as though she’ll have to change the subject if she has any hope of evading their questions.

“I probably shouldn’t be more worried about a dream than the reality, anyway.” She hangs her head dismally. “Sephiroth has the Black Materia.”

They all avert their gaze from each other toward Cloud. Cloud, who’s incapable of articulating anything about the incomprehensible parts of him — of which there are clearly many. Tifa and Barret both scowl. Aerith chooses not to acknowledge that.

“When do you think he’ll wake up?” Aerith asks as she begins to braid her hair.

Tifa shrugs, cavalier. Something is bothering her on a level that Aerith doesn’t yet have access to. “Hopefully soon, but you shouldn’t worry about that. Make sure you eat something. I’m sure you’re feeling weak after that incident.”

She musters a smile as an emblem of goodwill. “I’ll try.”

“We’ll be stayin’ right here ‘til this bastard gets his ass outta bed,” Barret declares, punctuating himself by shoving Cloud’s unconscious form. “Can’t have him pullin’ that self-sabotage crap again.”

So they intend to stay. Aerith purses her lips. That won’t be very conducive to her plans.

“Actually, I’d like to be alone for a few minutes. Is that okay?”

A beat of silence passes before Tifa smiles and says, “Sure. We’ll be outside with the others, but we’ll be back soon.”

“I dunno, I don’t trust ‘em by themselves…” Barret grumbles as he ducks under the doorway and joins Tifa in making their way out of the house.

Aerith sighs in relief and ties her braid together before sliding out of bed. She looks down — her dress is wrinkled and bunched up. A smattering of wine-colored bruises mars her legs. Stealing a glance at Cloud to ensure that he’s still knocked cold, she lifts the hem of her dress up to her waist and sees a similar bruise blooming on her stomach.

Cloud. She frowns forlornly. He had not been in control of himself when he pushed her to the ground and rained his fists down on her. They did not hurt her as much as they could have — no doubt because some part of him was managing to hold back. She replaces her dress and smooths out the wrinkles.

She’s made up her mind to leave. Realistically, she is the only one of them who can successfully summon Holy — and certainly the only one who can appreciate the City of the Ancients’ dormant power. She tilts her head and rests her cheek in the palm of her hand. Aerith is not willing to risk bringing them along and endangering their lives for a task that is solely hers to bear.

It would be easier, so much easier, for her to steal away without a word. She wants nothing more than to silently slip away, if only for her own selfish reasons. When she thinks of Cloud’s face — the shock and subsequent disappointment that would be etched into the corners of eyes — she can’t bring herself to abscond in such a cowardly way.

She walks over to where Cloud is sleeping and kneels by him, studying his face. Even in slumber, he looks troubled.

She’s never attempted this before and only recalls that her mother appeared before her in a dream once long ago, when she was still alive. Aerith should be able to do the same thing, shouldn’t she? She gingerly places her fingertips on either side of Cloud’s head and closes her eyes.

“Planet, if you can show this to him…”

A warm sensation envelops her. Murky memories come swirling to the surface: her mother, her real mother, wrapping her arms around her, rubbing her cheek against the top of her head; Elmyra, wrapping her up in an impossibly soft cotton and chocobo feather blanket; Zack, cupping her face in his gloved hands, memorizing her face before (unknowingly) walking away from her forever.

* * *

A lush, verdant forest emerges from the darkness and materializes around her. The trees form a canopy that covers the sky and tints the world in green. Soft sunlight filters through the foliage as she hides behind a tree. Aerith peeks out from her position, searching for him.

“Cloud, can you hear me?” she calls out.

A delicate silence stretches on. Branches sway and leaves rustle above her. Maybe this isn’t working.

Then —

_Yeah, I can. Sorry about what happened._

His words are muffled, distant. Remorseful.

“Don’t worry about it.”

_But I can’t help it._

It’s bizarre to hear his voice without seeing his face.

She weaves between the trees and takes in the sight of this forest that feels so familiar to her. The Ancients informed her that this was the grove that led into the Forgotten City.

“If you’re going to worry about it, why not _really_ worry? I’ll handle Sephiroth. I want you to take care of yourself, okay? It wouldn’t do for you to have a breakdown.”

Finally, Cloud appears, fading slowly into view and floating down from the heavens with her. He touches down and, skeptically, surveys their surroundings.

“Where are we?”

“This is the Sleeping Forest. It leads into the City of the Ancients,” she explains. She holds her hands behind her back and looks down at the earth beneath her feet. Dew drops, delicate and precarious, cling to blades of grass and shimmer in the light. “Sephiroth is going to use Meteor...we can’t change that. But I can protect the Planet. It’s my duty as a Cetra, you know.”

Though he’s typically so easy to read, she can’t decipher Cloud’s expression when she looks up. A sea of emotion, with untold depths and volatile waves is hidden behind those glowing eyes. She might just drown if she looks too closely.

“What are you saying? Are you trying to tell me that you’re going to leave?” he demands. His eyes dart around uneasily.

“You don’t need to worry about that. You already worry about too much.” Aerith reaches for his hand and cradles it in both of hers. She runs her fingers over the rough leather of his glove and the calluses of his skin. “How about we just enjoy this time together?”

He furrows his brows and opens his mouth to protest, but seems to think better of it and relaxes his tense shoulders. She takes a step forward and embraces him. His body is terribly frigid, but she rests her head on his shoulder and plants a petite kiss on his clavicle. The smallest gasp escapes his lips and she can’t contain a giggle.

Just as he goes to rest his hand on the small of her back, she withdraws and steps away from him. She can’t allow the moment to continue, lest she have second thoughts.

“I’ll be going now. I’ll come back when it’s all over.” Aerith waves. The farewell is temporary — she hopes. She can’t look him in the eyes.

“Aerith?”

She turns around to leave and runs toward the beacon of light where the forest ends, closing her heart to whatever Cloud says after her. If she listens, she knows she’ll waver. She knows she’ll choose the easy way out and stay with them. Her selfishness would get them all killed.

* * *

Aerith slips out of the cottage and takes a surreptitious route out of Gongaga to conceal herself from the party’s watchful eyes — well, with the possible exception of Yuffie and Cid, who tend to be absorbed in their own activities. Her lip twitches. She can’t dwell on them any longer.

She doesn’t have a prayer of reaching the City of the Ancients on foot before the others catch up to her. Nonetheless, she runs as far as her feet will take her along the dirt path before she spots a chocobo caravan crossing the grasslands in the distance. The ostentatious sky blue and purple paint adorning the caravan is a sharp contrast to the dull blue of the dimming evening sky.

“ _Hey!_ ” she yells, waving her hand as she continues sprinting toward it. Much to her relief, the caravan comes to a stop.

The driver, a rotund man with a remarkably well-groomed mustache, peers at her over his spectacles. “Yes? What can I do for a young lady such as yourself?”

Her lungs burn and ache for oxygen. Aerith catches her breath before she offers a coquettish smile and bows deferentially.

“Sorry sir, but are you heading north? If you are, could I hitch a ride?”

The driver holds the chocobo’s reins with one hand and twirls his mustache with the other as he contemplates her request. “The north is a bit out of the way, but I suppose I can make a detour. It’ll cost you, however.”

“That’s fine. I can make it the rest of the way,” she assures. She had the foresight to pilfer some gil from her satchel before whisking away. She dumps the coins in the man’s outstretched hand and climbs in next to him.

The driver whips his reins, spurring the chocobo to proceed jauntily ahead. Aerith’s breath finally steadies. Gongaga Village shrinks away as the caravan moves, shrinking until it’s nothing but a soft yellow twinkle against a backdrop of blue. A pang of gloom seizes her heart as she envisions her companions — her friends — calling her name and searching for her to no avail.

No, she can’t think that way. What she’s about to do is for their own good.

She doesn’t tell the driver why she’s going up north and he doesn’t ask. The soothing sound of the wheels turning and the chocobo’s talons kicking up dirt lulls her into light sleep.

* * *

Aerith’s teeth chatter violently as she traverses across stone paths and barren earth. The air chills her to her core. She rubs her shoulders and ascends a staircase of seashells and oracle bones, ignoring the dull burning sensation permeating her leg muscles. Tears gather when she reaches the top; she nearly weeps with joy. She’s finally here.

Yet, she can’t shake the sense of dread that grips her faculties when she steps foot into the enclave. It appears exactly as it did in her dream; shimmering light shining down from the firmament, the serene blue walls, the unsettling silence. Cautiously, she saunters to the center, allowing the light to engulf her, before kneeling. Her footsteps resonate against the walls. She tries to surmise at why the Planet might have revealed this place to her in a dream.

Her heart nearly comes to a grinding halt, skipping a beat. She places her hand against the wall. If this place is as close in real life as its replica in her dream, then what followed may yet come true.

Aerith had accepted and even embraced death and sacrifice as possibilities, even likelihoods. There is surely some type of poetry in the last of the Ancients returning to the Lifestream. However, as her shoulders tense and a chill racks her body, she realizes that acceptance and embrace are not the same as want.

No, she doesn’t want to die.

Sunrise in Costa del Sol. The earthy scent of rain, soil, and grass after a storm has passed. The salt of soup on her lips as a blizzard rages outside. Tifa’s smile, Barret’s moxie. Cloud — the entirety of him. Things that she will never have again so long as she lives behind the veil of the Lifestream.

Aerith banishes those thoughts from her mind as she kneels before the light. Earthly attachments will only serve to block her ability to summon Holy. Just as she closed Cloud off from her heart, so too does she close everyone and everything else off. She enters her trance, whispering praise to the Planet, and time ebbs and flows until she no longer becomes aware of it.

A single footstep resounding against the walls of the sanctum severs her concentration. She stays perfectly still, swallowing down her melancholy. So they managed to catch up to her sooner than she anticipated. She’s so close to summoning Holy, so very close, that she can’t stop now. Her eyes stay closed — her hands remain clasped in prayer.

The footsteps grow closer and louder. She can hear a man’s rapid breathing in the quiet of the sanctuary. He’s getting closer. She doesn’t waver.

A shadow masks the light, and she lifts her head to see Cloud standing above her, his sword raised and ready to impale her. Mako flares and swirls in his eyes, his jaw squares — feral. It can’t be him. Her mind breaks its concentration and a vision of them peering out of the gondola flashes before her.

Aerith can’t decide if she’d rather die by his sword or the one she had dreamt of.

“Stop!” She recognizes Tifa’s voice; it echoes throughout the barren chambers.

Cloud lowers his arms slowly, staggering backward and gripping the side of his head with his free hand. He groans, pained, and drops his sword. “Ugh...what are you trying to make me do?”

“Cloud…” she rasps.

She has fulfilled her purpose, and that should be enough for her to feel at peace with surrendering herself to the Lifestream. It should be enough, but it isn’t, and when she senses a presence from above, she tries to hurry to her feet in a desperate bid for life.

But she isn’t swift enough. The blade deftly slices through layers of skin and fat and muscle, through viscera, and her body is simultaneously on fire and freezing cold. Pain doesn’t register — it is, in fact, far away, as far away as Cloud’s agonized expression, as far away as Midgar and the flowers in her church. Those flowers are probably dead by now, aren’t they?

 _There must be flowers in the Lifestream,_ she thinks optimistically, even as her eyelids grow heavy and her body goes slack. _They’re there, somewhere._

* * *

“Aerith!”

Before she can open her eyes, the voice continues.

“You were thrashing around in your sleep. I was worried…”

Portentous confusion grips her. No. She just heard this. Is she reliving her memories before passing on to the next realm? That can’t be right either. She saw nothing before this moment. She opens her eyes, and Tifa is standing over her, just as she did before. The dim, orange candle light flickers in the corner of the room. Cloud lies still on his bed.

Aerith scrambles to sit up, tufts of hair dangling in front of her face. Her chest feels impossibly tight; her heart beats furiously against her sternum to the point of paining her.

“This isn’t right. I’m not supposed to be here,” she says frantically as she throws the covers off of her and leaps to her feet.

Tifa raises her eyebrows and looks to Barret for some input. It’s no good, as he appears just as befuddled as her. She folds her arms across her chest and moves back to lean against the wall. “What do you mean?”

Aerith opens and closes her mouth a number of times, attempting to conjure an explanation that will satisfy all parties in the room, including herself. She fails.

“I’m supposed to be in the Lifestream,” she murmurs. There’s a certain shade of horror to this situation that hasn’t fully sunk in yet.

Flummoxed, Barret’s lip twitches. “Hold up. I was there. Cloud lost his shit, but he wasn’t layin’ it on you _that_ bad.”

“That’s not it. Sephiroth...Sephiroth...!”

She paces the room and rubs circles through her hair. Sephiroth killed her. She felt it. It was as raw and real as anything else. Yet, she’s back in this room, hearing Tifa say the same things she did just the day before, immersed in the scent of pine and dust.

Tifa’s hands fly toward her shoulders, gripping them firmly, in an attempt to pacify herself more than Aerith. “Calm down, Aerith! What are you talking about?”

Aerith stops in her tracks and searches Tifa’s desperate eyes. Barret scratches his head in her periphery.

Unlike yesterday, she volunteers the events exactly as they occurred. Tifa’s face gradually drains of color before going completely waxen by the conclusion of her account. Barret doesn’t stop shaking his head, dismissing Aerith’s account before she’s even finished.

“Sounds like a whole lot of crazy talk to me,” he says.

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a bad dream?” Tifa asks.

Aerith pauses and brings a finger to her lip, considering the possibility. Was it a dream? It could have been. It could have been anything. She has always been content in the knowledge that the Planet would provide answers to her questions should she need them. The Planet is quiet now, offering nothing despite her mental probes for explanations.

She closes her eyes to gather her thoughts.

Unbidden, the image of Cloud swinging his sword down upon her flashes across her psyche like a snap of lightning.

Aerith’s eyes fly open and she turns to them both. “It was no dream.”

They’re still in clear disbelief and she orders herself to refrain from getting frustrated with them. All of them are silent for an excruciatingly long period of time. Aerith’s cheeks burn with shame, though she can’t quite pinpoint why.

Much to her surprise, it’s Barret who speaks up first.

“You know what? With all this shit that’s happened since we started chasing after this Sephiroth guy...maybe this ain’t so crazy after all,” he admits.

“But even if that’s true, what does that mean for us?” Tifa says, her voice rising with frustration. “What do we do now?”

A wave of exhaustion abruptly washes over her and she throws herself back on the bed, staring intently at the ceiling.

“I guess…” she starts, “I guess I do something different, right?”


	2. II: Malitiosa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> → ch 3 will likely take two full weeks due to work obligations.

“Cloud. Cloud! Get up! It’s an emergency.”

After shaking him a little more vigorously than Aerith intended, he finally begins to open his eyes. Her heart soars for a single hopeful moment when she realizes the possibility that he may just have gone through the same thing she did.

He mumbles something inaudible before rolling over lazily to his side.

She rolls her eyes despite herself. It figures that he’d wallow in despondency at a time like this. As much as her heart hurts for him, they don’t have the emotional currency to afford self-pity right now. Aerith grabs his shoulders and turns him back so that he’s facing her. He’s closed his eyes again and she frowns, displeased.

“Cloud, please,” she implores as she brings her fingers to his cheek.

That elicits her sought after response. He finally opens his eyes, fully, and manages to sit up.

“Ugh,” he groans. “How long have I been asleep for?”

Her face falls with the realization that he’s precisely the same as he was yesterday. She really is alone in this, isn’t she?

“I’m not sure. I just woke up not that long ago and Tifa and Barret didn’t tell me how long we’ve been here.”

Possibly because the problems they had been mulling over were slightly more pressing. Aerith is wise enough to keep her mouth shut about that for the moment, though.

“How are you feeling?” she continues.

“I’ve been better.” He rubs his bloodshot eyes and peers at her bruised legs before looking away in shame. “...I’m sorry.”

She inhales deeply, stifling a sneeze at the rush of dust that enters her lungs. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You couldn’t help it.”

“That almost makes it worse.”

Aerith sighs and sits next to him on the bed. Their knees touch as she places a reassuring hand on his bicep. The gesture is like drawing water from an empty well. Her reserves of compassion have run dry, and a small part of her had been hoping that she’d be the one licking her wounds as he consoled and comforted her.

Curiously, Cloud tenses under her touch and turns his head away from her, averting his gaze intently toward the candle in the corner of the room. The rejection aches than any of the bruises on her leg.

 _Get a hold of yourself,_ she chastises inwardly, attempting to banish that uncharacteristic pang of antipathy from her heart.

“What’s wrong?” Aerith asks. She isn’t sure if she actually wants to hear his answer.

He shifts around, as though he doesn’t feel quite at home in his own body, and continues looking at everything in the room except for her.

“It feels like you’re not supposed to be here. Don’t take that the wrong way — it just feels like something is wrong.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you why, though. It’s just a feeling.”

She worries her lip between her teeth. It’s not as effortless to tell the truth as she anticipated. “Not to freak you out, but your feelings are right. I’m not supposed to be here.”

Cloud narrows his eyes in suspicion, processing what she’s implying, and the poor boy looks like he’s about to give up and go back to bed. Aerith can’t exactly blame him for that.

“What do you mean?” Confusion distorts his question, and it sounds more like an accusation than anything else.

“How about we go outside so I can tell the others too? They’re waiting for us outside.” She rubs her temples. “I have a feeling I’m going to get sick of telling this story.”

* * *

When they venture outside into the balmy morning air, the other members of their party are strewn across the village cemetery in various positions: Cid, draped belly-up over the edge of the fence; Yuffie, leaning blasphemously against one of the tombstones; Red XIII, curled up forlornly by another.

“Looks like they decided to show up,” Cid drawls as he hops off the fence to his feet.

Yuffie perks up, eyes twinkling at the promise of gossip, and stands straight. “Finally! The suspense’s been _killing_ me!”

“Suspense?” Aerith repeats dumbly. Did they already hear something about it? A flash of irritation crosses her features. They couldn’t wait for her to explain such an inconceivable story herself?

“Tifa and Barret gave us the quick and dirty version, but I’d rather hear it from you, ‘cuz...well, it sounds like something out of a TV show.” She stretches her arms behind her back.

So they did say something. Their intentions were undoubtedly benevolent, but her cheeks burn in distress nonetheless. Cloud’s bemused gaze dissects her as she hops up on the fence to sit and the other members of their group huddle closer around her.

“I won’t make it too long...there’s not much to say anyway. I woke up yesterday and left for the City of the Ancients when no one was paying attention. A caravan brought me to the village where you can find the Sleeping Forest.” She smiles ruefully. “I had made it to the altar before Cloud and Tifa came...and then Cloud lifted his sword and — ”

“Cloud?” Tifa interjects.

“Yes. Cloud. But it wasn’t his fault,” she adds hastily.

“ _Oh._ I get it! He was doing the same thing he as when he gave Sephiroth the Black Materia!” Yuffie chirps. The other members of their group assent in their own ways — Vincent nods silently, Barret curses under his breath, Tifa’s brow furrows together in reluctant acknowledgment of the truth.

“The last thing I remember is this horrible pain. You can’t imagine it if you haven’t felt it,” Aerith continues, shaking her head. “I knew I was dying. You just know when it’s happening. And when I woke up today, it was the same thing all over again.”

“Well? _Was_ it Cloud?” Tifa asks, staring at the ground as she draws lines in the dirt with the toe of her boot.

“No. I’m sure you can guess who it was.” Aerith’s voice doesn’t come out quite as lighthearted as she intended, a fact reflected by the party members’ sullen faces.

Pensive silence, thick with tension, falls over the group like the shadow of an impending storm. That’s fair; it’s a lot to take in, but Aerith starting to feel painfully awkward. She focuses on a lonely tumbleweed riding on the breeze across town while she waits for them to say something — anything.

“Sounds like bullshit, if ya ask me,” Cid grumbles at long last.

Yuffie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, because some silver-haired freak going around saying this alien thing is his mom is _totally_ believable?”

“Even if it’s true, and I’m assumin’ that it is, why is it happening? What can we even do about it?” Barret bangs his fist against one of the headstones, his face contorting with the looming despair of powerlessness. “We’ve already got so much to worry about!”

“...Aerith.”

Vincent’s soft, sonorous voice cuts through the fracas of Cid and Yuffie’s banter and Barret’s rant. Never one to volunteer his opinion, he commands their silence by speaking up. Aerith turns to look at him, preemptively flinching at what he might say. His eyes flickering, his arms folded across his chest — he is the last person she had expected to lend her his support, though she struggles to pinpoint why she believed as much.

“I don’t see you as the type to make up tall tales.” He shrugs and looks toward the skies. “I believe you. Bizarre things are happening all around us. We don’t know if this is Sephiroth’s doing or something else, but we’ll find out.”

The group grows quiet once more, mulling over his words. She exhales shakily. How could they accept her story when she can hardly accept it herself?

“Tch. Vincent’s right, I guess — everything about this whole deal’s been weird from the start. I’ve got no damn reason to doubt ya,” Cid concedes with a grimace.

“What shall our next move be, then?” Red XIII asks.

Aerith twists the ends of her braid, concentrating on the individual strands of hair and the way they shine in the rising noon sun. It’s far easier to preoccupy herself with trivial things than to confront the eight pairs of pondering eyes, staring at her, waiting for her to give them direction. All the conviction in the world doesn’t make her a born leader.

“I still need to go to the City of the Ancients. It’s only a matter of time before Sephiroth casts Meteor, and only Holy can stop it,” she says quietly, ceasing her ministrations and folding her hands in her lap.

To her surprise, Red XIII scowls, crestfallen. “There’s nowhere else you can go to summon it?”

She shakes her head. “If there were, I’d go there instead.”

Aerith swallows, suddenly aware of the lump that’s abruptly formed in her throat. A dull throb pounds against her temple. The truth is just as tenebrous to her as it is to everyone else here, but the task of bringing everyone to light has fallen squarely on her shoulders. It’s utterly unfair. Stubborn tears pool in her eyes, and she refuses to wipe at them. When Tifa places her hand on her back, she lifts her head, prompting a tear to course down her cheek before falling onto the back of her hand.

“We’ll go to the Forgotten City as a group. You’ll be fine with us there,” Tifa assures.

“We won’t let that son of a bitch get his way.” Barret folds his arms, pleased with his own conviction.

Aerith can’t help but weep now — for entirely different reasons.

* * *

They depart from Gongaga with no further delay. The majority of their party would stay behind in Bone Village while she, Tifa, and Cloud ventured into the looming ruins of the Forgotten City.

(“Having all of us in one place is just what that bastard wants,” Barret had declared.)

The arid summer air chaps her lips and scratches her throat. Seasons had been abstract concepts in the microcosm of Midgar, but she feels them acutely now as she wipes the thin layer of sweat from her temple. Sparse patches of green stand defiantly on the dry, cracking earth as they tread the path leading out of the village. The nearby reactor has sucked the life out of the soil and sky, but some things will always cling to life, she supposes.

Without thinking, Aerith wanders off the trail toward one of the dense, fragrant bushes and inspects it, running her fingers along the rough sprigs. Rosemary. It has the arboreal smell of pine and a hint of something sour. The scent is familiar, perhaps too much — it grips her memories, unpleasant ones, and yanks them to the surface of her consciousness. She winces. She had very deliberately buried those memories. Yet, an inexplicable force compels her to pluck one of the sprigs from the bush. She tucks it into her jacket pocket, near her heart.

She hurries back to catch up with the rest of the group and sidles up between Cloud and Barret.

“Missing your flowers in Midgar?” Cloud asks.

Aerith hopes her smile is sincere enough. “You could say that.”

She keeps quiet on the rest of the trek to Bone Village. All of this feels wrong. Terribly, irreparably wrong. She hadn’t considered an alternative plan. She should be grateful for a second chance, the opportunity to amend the downfall caused by her haughtiness. Instead, questions consume her thoughts. Why has time bent and shifted and gone recursive? Why is she the only one who experienced it, where the others are exempt? Why did she wake up when she did? How can she be so confident that it wasn’t a dream as the other suggested?

It would’ve been much simpler to stay dead, she thinks morosely.

* * *

Aerith churns her musings and curiosities over and over in her head until her mind goes numb. When they reach their destination, it takes significant effort to coax herself back down to earth and back into the realm of rational thought.

They weave their way around the excavators and tattered tents scattered throughout Bone Village and climb the ladder leading to the Sleeping Forest. She turns to face the members staying behind. Gazing into their optimistic expressions is more than she can bear.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

Red XIII nods. “We’ll be right here waiting.”

“Aw, no fair! I wanna see the Forgotten City!” Yuffie whines, kicking the dirt petulantly.

“Quit your bitchin’! It’s givin’ me a headache!” Cid punctuates his censure with a deep, extended drag of his stubby cigarette.

Cloud and Tifa turn to her expectantly.

“Lead the way,” Tifa says, gesturing toward the forest entrance.

Aerith wears her newfound role as leader like a suit of armor meant for someone far larger than her; its heft tethers her heart to her stomach.

The trio travels in silence, crossing through the clearing bordered by boundless trees until they reach the bouldered bluffs. After fending off petty adversaries, they scale the cliffs and reach the top of the plateau leading into the City of the Ancients. The rotting metropolis looms over them with petrifying austerity; the haunted, winding roads and density of dead branches at the center inspire a hundred different kinds of dread in her.

“Hey, you okay?”

Cloud’s concerned voice rouses her from her trance.

“Yes, I’m okay. I’m feeling a little emotional, that’s all,” she admits, pressing her shaking hands to her sides. “Let’s keep going.”

Tifa turns to Cloud and gnaws on a nail. “Doesn’t it feel like we’re intruding?”

Aerith has the acumen to hold her tongue. As much as every part of her acknowledges that she can no longer act alone — as better as it is to have her friends by her side — the sense that they _are_ intruders proves difficult for her to shake.

After braving the chill and travailing across the limestone and gravel paths, passing the dilapidated homes that once housed her people, they exit the antechamber — a former abode — leading to the sanctum. A familiar light shines down from the heavens, bathing them all in blue. The faint scent of saltwater permeates the stale air. Cloud takes a step forward, casting his eyes toward the altar above, pupils contracting with the pain of a false memory.

“Well...we’re here,” he says. His saturnine countenance doesn’t serve to inspire much confidence.

“I’ll stay down here so I can call for the others if we need to. Go up there and give it what you’ve got,” Tifa urges, though it sounds half-hearted to Aerith’s ears.

The weight of her previous fates anchors her to the earth. She doesn’t realize that tremors rack her entire body until a hand touches her back. Her heart leaps into her throat and she flinches; her muscles tense with the memory of her demise.

“Don’t worry. I’m right here. I’m your bodyguard, remember?” Cloud assures softly, gripping her shoulder. His smile, though slight and uneasy, so perfectly channels Zack’s that she can nearly see his face right before her eyes. Despite Cloud’s noble intentions, she feels no braver than she did before.

Aerith nods and they ascend the bone and shell staircase. He trails behind her with his hand resting vigilantly on the hilt of his sword. When they reach the apex, she takes a hesitant step forward and rests her hand on the railing. A phantom pain blooms in her chest, writhing at the memory of what occurred here a mere day ago. She grips her arms and runs her fingers over the raised bumps on her skin.

“I don’t know how long this will take. If we can just keep him at bay until I’m done…” Aerith says, trying to mask her anxiety and pass it off as peace.

Cloud shouldn’t be here for more reasons than she can count, but she needs him here. _I need him here._ She chants this mantra in her head to force herself to accept his presence. Any attempts to summon Holy will be fruitless so long as she harbors this debilitating doubt inside her.

Her myriad fears swirl inside her mind like puffs of poison.

She holds her breath and descends to her knees.

“Just concentrate on doing what you need to do and I’ll take care of the rest. I won’t let Sephiroth pull the strings again,” Cloud declares with a determined nod.

Aerith forcefully dismantles her mental walls and allows his words to comfort her. She closes her eyes and brings her hands together in prayer as the tendrils of her consciousness reaching toward the nebulous spirit of the Planet. Time once again ebbs and flows as the ocean does, and Cloud’s presence — her past, her present, her future, and all possibilities that sleep between the three — fade into the background, forgotten.

Yes, time stretches on — until the sound of Cloud’s breath hitching in his lungs awakens a primal fear and ceases her prayers, and her eyes fly open at the din of metal clashing against metal reverberating in her ears.

Aerith scrambles to her feet and backs up against the railing. He’s here. She grips the railing until her knuckles go pale. The quicksilver hue of Sephiroth’s hair goes blurry as he darts around, too quickly for her eyes to keep up. Cloud matches his pace with an unsustainable amount of labor; inevitably, with one last burst of force, Sephiroth overpowers him and knocks him back into the railing wall opposite to her.

“If you weren’t so useful, I’d kill you too,” he remarks, heaving a bored sigh. “If you aren’t going to do the one thing you were designed to do, keep back.”

Cloud rises to his feet. He braces himself and pivots to charge forward; Sephiroth holds one hand out to his side and halts him. His limbs go leaden. He reaches toward Aerith, his fingertips seeking hers, and the gelid grip of _déjà vu_ grasps her tightly, freezing her in place.

“Fight him, Aerith!” he shouts. He grits his teeth and struggles against the invisible restraints, but it proves too much. He falls to his knees.

Her gaze snaps back to Sephiroth. He tilts his head and regards her — not unlike a predator studying the habits of its prey.

“Well? Are you going to fight?” he sneers.

Does Cloud truly believe that she could even begin to stand up to someone of Sephiroth’s caliber? It would be a farce.

Yes, it’s nothing more than a farce, but Aerith’s fierce will to live hijacks the fearful part of her, impelling her to draw her staff from its resting place on her hip. She extends it and takes an instinctive, defensive step backward.

“You always did manage to surprise me,” Sephiroth comments, shaking his head. He lifts Masamune and lunges at her.

Aerith blocks his blade with her staff and attempts to push back against him. Her arms tremble with the force of her effort. He withdraws and moves to target her stomach. She’s swift enough to parry the move once again, but just barely. An insidious sensation that she’s about to meet the same end as she did before seizes her. Battling on such sacred ground hurts her heart, as does the idea that she may have squandered her solitary chance to make things right.

Those thoughts give her pause for an evanescent moment. Her grip on her staff loosens. It’s more than enough opportunity for him to overpower her. He increases his force and the staff flies out of her hands, hurling through the air before falling into the pools below with a splash.

Sephiroth wastes no time. The amused glint in his eye is gone. He draws his sword back before thrusting it upward through her chest, impaling her — just as effortlessly as he did the first time around.

Her legs fold instantly and she crashes onto the sanctuary floor, pressing her hand gently against her torso even as blood gushes from the gaping wound. Defeated once more, even with the gift of prescience. The hope and promise she had dared to allow herself dissipate in a moment. The corners of her eyes feel wet and full. At least she struggled valiantly, she likes to think.

He takes a step toward her. Her strength seeps out of her in vast crimson pools. Aerith can’t bring herself to look up at him and match his contemptuous gaze.

“I’ll kill you again. I’ll kill you a thousand times in a thousand different ways if that’s what it takes,” Sephiroth says nonchalantly with a dismissive wave. He doesn’t even entertain the thought that she could swim against the tides of his wrath. She grits her teeth, seething silently. Another part of her, desperate and drowning, despairs at how readily he tossed his own memories to the wind while she continues to clasp hers close to her heart. How could he forget?

_Again?_

“What — ” (in between rapid breaths and desperate gasps, she tastes salt and metal and bile on her tongue) “ — what are you saying?”

Before he can answer, she coughs violently, the sound wet and gurgly and repulsive to her senses. Blood fluctuates in her throat and leaks from her nose. A metallic tang wafts through the air. She sputters, and droplets of red splatter against the sanctum floor and the toe of his boot.

He stoops down until he’s nearly level with her. His eyes are the opposite of Cloud’s; nothing exists behind their glow but a small, smoldering ember of anger. He smirks and extends a hand toward her. For an agonizing moment, she’s terrified that he’s going to deliver the final blow and rip her heart out of her chest with his bare hand, or strangle her, or claw her throat out, or slaughter her in some unforeseen gory fashion. The sight of her Cetran blood spilling forth into the waters below would no doubt please him. Her stomach churns.

Instead, he takes her chin between two gloved, frigid fingers.

“The Cetra thinks she’s exceptional.” His hold tightens. “You’re not the only one doing this all over again.”


	3. III. Iniuriosa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> → this chapter came out remarkably longer than i anticipated during editing, hence the minor delay. i anticipate that the next chapter will go up in about two weeks.

She resolves not to tell them this time.

Guarding her silence might facilitate finding the way out to this mess. The futility of having taken the time and care to tell them about her situation only to die once more not a mere day later isn’t lost on her.

She stays still as death and squeezes her eyes shut even after Tifa calls her name. She needs time — she’s not sure what for, but she needs time.

“That’s weird. She stopped,” she hears Tifa tell Barret fretfully. “It was like something was possessing her. Scary…”

“Can ya blame her? You try havin’ sweet dreams after Cloud turns around and starts curbstomping you. This whole damn thing has been a nightmare.”

_Oh, Barret. You don’t know the half of it._

They murmur amongst themselves for a few more minutes before the door creaks and shuts. The smell of dust and pine is starting to nauseate her.

Her head spins even with her eyes closed. Even after stowing away her abject horror at her third grisly death to be dealt with at another time, one question prevails and prods at her enough to make her scream. If what he had said is true, then why are they the only two trapped in time? Why him and not Cloud, or Tifa, or anyone else? She curls her fingers tightly around the sheets beneath her, pulling them taut, still feigning sleep. It’s a cruel, injurious joke.

Returning to the City of the Ancients would paint a target directly on her body. Her muscles lock up at the memory; she can still taste blood on her tongue. He’s waiting for her. She can envision him perched atop one of the abandoned abodes, admiring the way his blade catches the light, biding his time until she arrives and the cycle repeats once more. No, she can’t go back there — but where else could she conjure the energy required to summon Holy?

Aerith stifles a gasp as a memory bursts to the surface, unbidden. She scrambles to sit up.

There’s one place where she just might have a chance.

* * *

“What’s wrong, Aerith? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Before venturing outside toward the graveyard to be with the others, she had crammed her memories of previous iterations in the back of her consciousness until she was sufficiently convinced they’d have no bearing on her actions. Red XIII’s alarmed gaze speaks to the success of her efforts, it seems.

“Do I? I _feel_ like I’ve seen one,” she jokes, laughing halfheartedly. “What happened at the temple kind of shook me.”

He nods sagely. “That is certainly understandable.”

Footsteps scratch against the dirt path, and both she and Red XIII turn to see a disoriented Cloud approaching them — with a slight limp, she notes with a pang of pity.

She can’t help but smile, though she suspects it appears somewhat sad. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Yeah, morning,” he mumbles. Not quite as receptive to her greeting as she had hoped, but then, at least he isn’t projecting the verisimilitude of peachiness the way she is. Knowing him, he could very well still be half asleep, too.

Barret clears his throat with dramatic flair before bellowing, “All right, now that Sleeping Beauty’s up, we can get started.”

A sharp pain suddenly assails her temples — part of her rejects that this is happening, that she’s here, that she’s watching this with her own eyes, that she isn’t gushing blood from a gaping wound in her sternum. In the periphery, she can see Cloud’s eyebrows shoot up in acute concern. She brings her fingertips gingerly to her forehead and waves her other hand in a conciliatory gesture. “If you keep making that face, it’s gonna get stuck like that.”

Cloud’s expression relaxes, the hard edge of anxiety softening into something resembling affection. She hops up on the fence adjacent to where Cid lies down and next to where Cloud stands.

“So what’s our next move? Sephiroth’s got the Black Materia and we got no clue where he’s heading next,” Barret says as he folds his arms across his chest — just as he did yesterday.

“Where do you think he’s going, Cloud?” Tifa asks, leaning against the fence opposite to them.

The uncomfortable truth hangs thickly in the air, miasma in their lungs — perhaps more palpable to Aerith than the others. The sight of Cloud lifting his sword against her, eyes devoid of depth, hops along her synapses.

“I’m not sure,” he admits, scratching the side of his face with a single finger. “I honestly don’t really understand what’s happening.”

Well, at least he’s honest.

“Damn,” Cid mutters, staring at the sky, “a dead end, huh?”

 _Tell them_ , a voice urges in the back of her mind.

Aerith looks down. A scant few blades of grass peek through a small fissure in the ground. _I can’t._

That’s right, she can’t. Telling them would strip her of her veil of secrecy. As much as she trusts them, there are things that only her heart is meant to know.

Demoralized, Yuffie delivers a swift kick to the earth, conjuring a cloud of dust that the desert breeze dutifully carries away. “Ugh, this is the worst! He’s gonna cast that meteor spell or whatever and flatten us to pancakes.”

“Um, Yuffie, someone is _buried_ there,” Tifa points out, eyebrows shooting up in distress.

Aerith swallows down an inappropriately timed giggle and twirls a strand of hair around her finger, still vacillating between keeping her mouth shut and speaking up.

“He left us with no clues. We would have to travel to individual locations and ask people in those areas if they’ve seen him...and then hope for the best,” Vincent says with a tinge of resignation.

“I feel like there’s something I should tell you guys.”

All heads turn toward Aerith, no doubt due to her uncharacteristic sobriety in saying such a thing. She takes a shallow breath — all eight pairs of eyes on her again, waiting for answers she apparently cannot give. Just like before.

Cloud’s furrowed brow and slight scowl don’t escape her attention.

“Before my mom died, she gave me a piece of materia — the White Materia.” She swings her legs back and forth, kicking her heels against the fencepost. “I always knew it had great power, but I had to keep it a secret, y’know?”

Tifa’s eyes widen. “The White Materia? That means…”

She trails off, struggling to string the words together. Still, her thought rings clear and Aerith nods.

“I can use it to summon Holy, which will stop Meteor and anything else harming the Planet,” she explains reluctantly. “But it’s a powerful spell. I can’t do it just anywhere.”

Cloud, whose lips had been pursed up to this point, seems to finally find it in himself to say something. “So when you said that it was useless…”

_You were lying to me._

“It wasn’t a lie. I just didn’t know,” she says. A sheepish blush rises to her face — or is that just the heat of the desert sun? She’ll go with the latter.

Vincent shakes his head. “Let’s not get hung up on the specifics.”

“Right. Anyway, there’s a place that has enough of the Planet’s power where I think I could summon it.”

“And what is that place, Aerith?” Red XIII asks.

“Mideel,” she says with a heavy sigh. There’s no doubt that they’re going to raise some kind of objection to trying to reach such a place with their paltry resources.

“That makes sense.” Tifa brings a thoughtful finger to her lips. “That’s where the Lifestream is closest to the surface.”

“That’s great ‘n all, but how the hell do we get there? The Tiny Bronco can’t make it past rough waters.” Cid unceremoniously spits his worn cigarette onto the ground and fishes in his pocket for a fresh one.

“Our options are limited,” Cloud concedes. “Is that really the only place, Aerith?”

It’s not, but she isn’t about to divulge that information with them. She wrings her hands and pouts. “If you can think of another place full of the Planet’s power, I’m all ears.”

The group slips into pensive silence as they mull their dilemma over. The tight coil of disquietude grows thinner deep in her stomach. Yuffie’s gasp tugs her back down to reality.

“Hold on! Hey, Cid, lemme see the map for a sec.” Yuffie extends her hand, signaling for Cid to comply.

He narrows his eyes skeptically and tosses the map — rolled up in all its frayed, weathered, and yellowed glory — in her direction. Yuffie unfurls and scans it. A sly, satisfied smile spreads across her lips.

“I got it! Come here, guys.”

They all move to huddle around Yuffie, with the notable exception of Vincent, who stays right where he is against the fence in the back of the graveyard. Barret towers over them, casting a shadow over the map. The close proximity to the others makes Aerith acutely aware of them — Cid’s tobacco-laden breath, the scent of cinnamon sugar shampoo drifting from Tifa’s direction — in ways that she isn’t sure she’s comfortable with. Squinting, she can make out Yuffie’s finger firmly planted on the shore distal to Mideel.

“Look, see? If we can come up right against the shore, we should be able to make it across to land if we use a grappling hook or something.”

Barret scratches his beard. “Damn. That might just work.”

“It’s a hell of a risk is what it is. If we fail, we’ll have wasted all that time we coulda spent lookin’ for Sephiroth,” Cid says.

“But we have to try.” The determination in Cloud’s voice prompts her to look in his direction directly across from her. “Following Sephiroth blindly isn’t going to get the Black Materia out of his hands, and it isn’t going to stop Meteor.”

“He’s right. Even if it doesn’t work out, we have to at least be able to say we tried,” Tifa says, eyebrows furrowed together in an unsettling reflection of Cloud’s conviction.

“Then we’re off to Mideel. We should move out if we’re good to go,” declares Aerith. They’re relying on her to project confidence, maintain the peace, just as she always has — even if she is growing further and further from that person as she sinks deeper into this enigma.

Barret motions for them to get moving as he gestures toward the village exit. He and Cid are at the front of the pack, with Red XIII and Tifa right behind them.

“That was surprisingly astute of you, Yuffie,” she hears Vincent say as he moves to join them.

“Hey, what are you trying to say, pal?”

“Exactly what I said.”

They bicker for a bit longer before settling into somewhat companionable silence as they move ahead of her. Yuffie sticks her tongue out at him when (she thinks) he isn’t looking.

“You’ve been pretty quiet, Aerith.”

Cloud sidles up next to her as they make their way down the dirt path. His arms hang limply at his side, as though he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

“Yeah, I guess I just haven’t had much to say.”

“Are you...upset about what happened earlier?” he asks, tensing up.

Earlier? What happened earlier? Her breath hitches. Visions of pellucid beams of blue light, the iron tang of blood —

“N-No. I’m not, I promise,” she says without thinking.

He looks down at his toes. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

She doesn’t say anything, and a thick, suffocating silence envelops them as they walk side by side.

Once more, she strays from the path and plucks a sprig of rosemary from the dry bush situated right outside the village entrance. She tucks it inside her jacket pocket, next to her heart. It’s one of the few facets of constancy that she can cling to.

She returns to the path, knowing he’ll be right behind them — sooner rather than later.

* * *

“Wait, wait! Let me try one more time!”

“Damn it, woman! If you mess this up again I’m lettin’ you go on purpose!”

Yuffie teeters precariously on the edge of _Tiny Bronco_ ’s wing, reeling the fallen grappling hook back from the sea, while Cid grips the back of her halter top. The jagged rocks that line the shallows below would skewer her in an instant were she to tumble into the water. If there’s one thing she’s learned since they’ve arrived here, it’s that Cid has exponentially more patience than she gave him credit for.

They’ve been docked here for close to an hour. Cloud and Tifa are starting to doze off, Red XIII and Vincent are talking about something or other, and Barret looks like he’s about to intentionally capsize the entire aircraft. For her part, she can’t deny that sleep is looking pretty good right now.

“Okay, here goes nothin’. I’m going to try to hook it around that left rock instead of the right one this time,” Yuffie grumbles as she wipes the sweat from her forehead. Licking her lips, she swings the hook before tossing it over to the ledge with an impassioned grunt. Though Aerith can’t quite tell from this angle, the hook appears to be comfortably nestled against the posterior side of the rock, forming a wide upwards arc from the airplane wing up to the ledge.

Cid’s eyes go wide. “Gods alive, it actually stuck.”

(Out of the corner of her eye, Aerith can see Barret nudging Cloud. “Nap time’s over, Spike.”)

“That’s just the first part. Now we actually have to climb across.”

“We? Try _you_ , shortstack. I’m not climbing that thing until someone can hold onto the rope from the other side.”

“Wow, what happened to chivalry? If I die, I’m definitely coming back to haunt you guys.” Despite her protests, Yuffie swallows hard and grips the rope before wrapping herself around it. Cid lets go of her halter top and takes the end of the rope between both hands, pulling it taut.

“Be careful, Yuffie,” Aerith says, abruptly aware of her own anxiety at the sight of her draped across the rope.

“Yeah, yeah. Just let me do my thing.”

Yuffie shimmies horizontally along the rope at an excruciatingly slow pace, yelping and yelling when the rope oscillates. With one last burst of willpower, she climbs up the last stretch against the cliff. She sinks her fingernails into the earth and throws herself up onto the ledge and stumbles to her feet.

“Ha! Take that!” She pumps her fists into the air in triumph.

“I wouldn’t get excited yet if I were you. If we die, yer on your own.”

Yuffie plucks the grappling hook and pulls against the rope, creating a tighter connection between the plane and the ledge. One by one, they make their way along the cable and up onto the island, with the exception of Red, who leaps up there with surprising ease.

“Woohoo! We made it!” Yuffie stretches her arms behind her back and flashes a toothy grin. “I gotta be honest. I was the one who suggested it, but I didn’t really think it was gonna work.”

“Shit,” Cid rasps between pants. “I can’t say I thought it was gonna work either. Thought we were about to be shark meat for a second…”

Aerith vaguely suspects that Yuffie had some ulterior motivations when she suggested this course of action.

“I can see what people mean when they talk about your life flashing before your eyes,” Cloud admits with a sheepish blush staining his cheeks.

Red XIII’s nostrils flare as he inhales the scent drifting from east. “Let’s not delay. Mideel should only be a couple hours away on foot.”

They traverse across the grassy plains and dense forestry of the southern island and they arrive far sooner than even she anticipated. Aerith oscillates between a sense of glittering optimism and singeing pessimism when they finally cross the threshold into Mideel. The thick air, saturated with steam, fills her parched lungs. Tendrils of mist drift and undulate above them, climbing into the sky and merging with the clouds.

She looks around, drinking in the sight of the modest huts comprised of bamboo and wood, the people milling about, fanning themselves amidst the humidity. There’s something beautiful in its simplicity. Could this really have been the locus of so much bloodshed?

The rest of their party run off to get settled, she assumes. It’s been a good six hours since they last took a break, and the dull edge of fatigue is beginning to press into her. Cloud and Tifa, who had been chatting about something or other upon their entry, cease their conversation and look expectantly at Aerith.

“Now that we’re here, I’m leaving the rest up to you,” Cloud tells her. “You have a better handle on all this than I do.”

 _Yeah, I wish._ Aerith suppresses that particularly sour thought.

“I’m going to go find a place where the Lifestream is at the surface,” she says. “Where will you all be?”

“We’ll be asking around to see if anyone here has seen or heard of Sephiroth, but we’ll mostly be waiting for you.”

“No pressure though, right?” she says with a kittenish wink. “Will you come with me, Tifa?”

Clearly somewhat shocked that Aerith would ask her specifically, her eyebrows shoot up and she immediately sputters, “Of course!”

Aerith blinks. She had half-expected Tifa’s first reaction to be skeptical, or at least curious. Not immediate acquiescence. She grins, feeling inexplicably awkward and nearly missing Cloud’s similarly perplexed expression.

“Well, there’s no time like the present!” she chirps, and for the first time in quite a while, her enthusiasm is authentic.

Cloud steals one lingering glance at them as they head north towards the woods before he stalks off to join the rest of their party. Tifa stretches her arms behind her back as they move further away from the town’s bustle and deeper into the dense greenery bordering the settlement.

“Any particular reason you asked me to come along instead of Cloud?” Tifa finally asks.

It feels like a trick question. Is the answer not obvious? Aerith quirks her head and answers, “I think Cloud needs some space.”

Tifa frowns. “You’re right. But wouldn’t you rather just go alone then?”

“Nah, it’s kind of a private thing, but I’d feel better with another pair of eyes given...well, you know.”

“That makes sense. I haven’t done the whole prayer thing since I was a kid, honestly, so I guess it’s a little foreign to me.”

“Why’s that?”

She averts her angry gaze toward the treetops. “The only way to change anything is with my own hands.”

The frenetic fury that Tifa typically tames so well rears its face. Aerith reaches for her hand and squeezes tightly. “We make a great team, then. You use your hands, I use my heart.”

“Ugh, that’s _so_ cheesy, Aerith.” The corners of her eyes crinkle with a genuine smile despite her protest. To Aerith’s surprise, Tifa doesn’t pull her hand away. They walk along the path and weave through the trees when they come upon a clearing where small ravine, glowing malachite green, cuts through the forest.

The Planet’s power hums and whispers in her ear, sending chills down her spine — not unlike what she felt when she attempted to pray at the City of the Ancients. Yet, she can’t make out the words her ancestors are saying, their voices distant and murky. That’s understandable, she supposes; their voices were loudest when she was nestled within their former home. This place is far from that home.

Aerith extricates her fingers from Tifa’s and runs up to the creek. A tiny but forceful wave of the Lifestream brushes up against the ravine’s edge, sending drops flying and splashing onto Aerith’s dress. She turns her head to face Tifa, whose eyes reflect the ethereal phosphorescence of the ravine as she stares, entranced.

“This might take a while,” Aerith says, folding her hands in front of her.

Snapping out of her reverie, Tifa turns to her and nods. She leans against a tree towards the opening of the clearing, crossing her legs and folding her arms. “Don’t rush it. You do what you need to do, okay?”

Aerith swallows and stoops down, brushing her fingers against the damp blades of grass. She rolls her dress up to her thighs as she kneels before the Lifestream. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, drinking in the scent of clean, crisp air, before joining her hands and lowering her head.

_Let this be it. Let this be the end._

She banishes the image of silver and cold steel from her mind.

A fat drop of water lands on the bridge of her nose. Another one lands on her fingertip, another on her clavicle. Light rain begins to gently shower down from the heavens, soaking her ribbon and dress, drenching the earth. She keeps her hands clasped in uneasy prayer.

The Planet whispers, a sound so faint that she wonders if she’s a mere figment of her imagination.

 _This is our only chance,_ she pleads. When no reply comes her way, her heart sinks down to her toes.

This is distinct from the first time she attempted to summon Holy. Thinking back to it, it was her only successful attempt. That time, she had felt something surreal and omnipotent take root inside her very soul, the shoots growing through the cracks in her heart and blooming into beautiful, devastating power. She feels nothing comparable to that now; only that the seeds of that power have died before they could ever sprout.

The rain recedes just as quickly as it arrived.

She rises hesitantly to her feet and brushes the dirt off her knees, the heady scent of ozone and petrichor still lingering in the air. The Lifestream laps gently at the edge of the gorge.

Tifa’s glossy lips purse together and she brushes her hand against Aerith’s forearm — an unspoken question in her fingertips.

Aerith turns to look her in the eye. “What did the materia look like?”

“It glowed for a minute, but the light was flickering. Then it just...stopped,” she mutters, not meeting Aerith’s gaze. The disappointment in her voice is a needle through Aerith’s chest.

The initial confusion begins to fade, yielding to a burgeoning sense of bashfulness at her failure. Aerith lifts a hand to her face; despite the constellation of cool raindrops lingering on her skin, her cheeks feel hot to the touch.

“Don’t beat yourself up. You worked hard!” Tifa flashes a smile so scintillating that it should be enough to decimate the shadows roiling in Aerith’s mind. It should be enough. Should.

“It just doesn’t make sense, though!” Aerith snaps, a surge of aggression and helplessness flowing through her heart before evaporating. She drops her shoulders and sighs. “Sorry, it’s just that last time it — ”

“Last time?”

Aerith’s heart skips a beat. It’s a genuine, fair question, but she can’t clarify without revealing herself.

“Sorry, I was just thinking back to a dream I had.”

Disbelief is written all over Tifa’s face, but she tentatively accepts the explanation and continues walking with her toward town. A vortex of mysteries swirls around her like wisps of mist, murmuring questions in her ear that she cannot answer.

When they regroup at the village’s inn to rest, Aerith dodges the group’s questions, leaving Tifa to explain, and slips into a slumber devoid of dreams as soon as her head hits the pillow.

* * *

She awakes in the middle of the night, when all the others have already duly passed out. Yuffie’s unrelenting snore grates and grinds against her eardrums; she firmly presses her pillow over head and ears to stifle the sound so she can hear her own thoughts.

Her last hope is to intercept him and pry the Black Materia from his possession. The chances of successfully accomplishing such a thing are laughably low, but she can’t die again without being able to say that she tried. The recollection of Tifa’s words brings a brief smile to her lips.

Can she reach him remotely? She’s never attempted as much. Sharing her visions with Cloud was simple enough, but she had the benefit of physical contact.

He acts as though he has exiled her existence and her memory from his soul. She wonders how much of that is true.

Aerith closes her eyes and tilts her head back, withdrawing and gathering herself. He let her in once, long ago. That connection must surely still exist in some capacity.

She searches deep inside her for that long lost tether, diving into herself and rummaging through the fathoms of her soul, before extending an experimental sliver of consciousness his way. She hits a leaden wall at first and gasps — the wall pushes back against her, and the mental sensation of being knocked back syncs with her physical body and she recoils. But she can’t stop here; his walls are not impenetrable. She can slip in somewhere.

Aerith retracts the wisps of her psyche and retreats from his mental stronghold, waiting a beat. She imagines one tendril reaching toward him, the deepest part of him, feeling for some crack in the otherwise ironclad fortress surrounding his soul. At long last, she establishes a link between them and sinks into the murky fathoms of his consciousness as hers begins to recede. The tenuous connection renders his thoughts and emotions vague, unclear — an out-of-focus snapshot of a mind that she was never certain she wanted to understand.

Unanticipated, a scalding sensation bubbles and brews in her chest until it boils over. Rage floods her heart, so ardent and absolute that it leaves her gasping and gulping for air and prompts her to seek purchase against the bed beneath her. Rage potent enough to raze and scorch the earth. Rage so alien to her that she can scarcely comprehend what she’s feeling. It leaves room for nothing and no one else.

Despite the furnace of fury burning within her, she has a destination in mind. It’s still warm, but she’s approaching somewhere cold. Grassy hills that curve up into a barren tundra.

She opens her eyes. He’s heading north.

* * *

_What makes me do these things alone?_ Aerith thinks miserably as she hitches ride after ride to travel to the other end of the planet. At the same time, the thought of her companions being party to any more revelations about her past than they already have been is enough to make her stomach churn. Her plan’s minuscule chances of success would drop firmly down to zero if anyone else joined her, anyway.

She had stolen away in the middle of the night. That was over a day ago.

She bats her lashes and weaves saccharine words together to convince her current caravan driver, a slender merchant woman, to sell her a dense coat lined with faux fur and a pair of boots. Donned appropriately, she thanks the merchant and hops off the caravan at the foot of the snowcaps.

The valley looms over her, a desolate and silent cradle. The creaking of the caravan’s wheels fades away behind her as she raises her head to take in the sight of the steep incline.

What choice does she have at this point?

As Aerith trudges up the slope, gentle snowflakes sprinkle down from the sky and dot her face. The thin, dry air burns her face. She’s beginning to regret passing up the opportunity to beguile a pair of snow goggles off the merchant woman. Some mittens would have been nice. She breathes over her tingling fingers and rubs them together vigorously.

There’s no sign of him anywhere in this white wasteland. Sure, she knew that this was his destination, but maybe this decision to come here in pursuit was an inane impulse; she has no way of finding him or even surmising as to where he could be.

So she wanders and meanders and walks in circles until her hands and face have lost all feeling and her knees knock together, searching for a wisp of black as the sun sinks into the horizon.

Aerith squints, resisting gravity’s tempting pull toward the ground, and sees a figure near the top of the slope. Jolted awake, she darts upward, panting and searching for confirmation that it’s what she’s been searching for. A black cape flutters close to the ground, contrasting with the snow, and she can see flecks of silver when she finally catches up to him.

“I’ve f-found you.”

The sunset peers over the mountaintops beside them, dyeing the world in orange hues and blue shadows. He stops in his tracks. Fingers curled around Masamune, he stands still, his back facing her.

“Interesting. And how did you know that I was on the northern continent?” he asks, voice dripping with condescending curiosity.

“Just a hunch.”

She can’t see his expression but she can already imagine that her sardonicism has failed to amuse him. He’s right in front of her in a flash, his face in uncomfortable proximity as he grips the collar of her coat and jerks her toward him.

“I don’t think it was a suspicion, or even a premonition.” His voice, low and threatening, makes the hairs on her neck stand erect. He yanks her closer, close enough that she is vaguely aware of his warm breath on her numb cheek. This is her chance. “I felt you reaching for me.”

Emboldened, she meets his inimical gaze. “And you l-let me in.”

“That was for a reason.” He releases her and swiftly backs away as though she were a uniquely poisonous plant. She grimaces at the lost opportunity. “You’ve used the White Materia.”

“I tr-tried, but even being near the Lifestream didn’t work,” she stammers, wrapping her arms around herself. She can’t stop shivering even with the fur lining of the coat. “I can’t do it anywhere other than the F-Forgotten City.”

She thinks she sees a fleeting flash of pity cross his cold countenance but decides she must have been imagining it. Seeing what she wants to see, as usual.

“Why did you come alone? Surely you must have known that you’d stand no chance.”

Aerith hugs herself tightly, trying to match his detached gaze with her own brand of indifference.

“There’s no way I can get you to reconsider what you’re doing.” It’s somewhere between a statement and a question.

He brings a hand to his head and laughs, a sharp and jaunty sound that curdles her blood. A bizarre sense of _déjà entendu_ slithers along her back and whispers in her ear — the sound is at once familiar and foreign.

“Some things never change,” he finally utters after his brief fit of mirth.

She swallows hard, cursing herself for what she’s about to attempt.

“You can’t tell me that this is what you really want. Why — ”

He holds up his hand to halt her.

“Don’t say anything else. I know why you came.” He smirks. “You were always a good liar, Aerith. It wasn’t like you to be so forthcoming with your plans.”

The color drains from her face. After that arresting moment of shock fades, she immediately curses herself for not foreseeing this. In her haphazard attempt to breach the safeguards of his mind, she neglected to fortify her own defenses. The communication was bilateral. He’s one step ahead of everyone and always has been — even when he used that edge for far more benevolent purposes.

“I see. You’ve forgotten,” she laments, somewhere between fury and mourning, “about everything.”

He turns his head to regard the snow-clad slopes beneath them.

“You’re mistaken. I recall everything perfectly well. Just because I remember, however, does not mean any of it matters to me.” His voice strains as he speaks and his fingers twitch, so slightly as to be nearly imperceptible.

The admission shouldn’t sting as much as it does, even if a minute, optimistic part of her doubts how true it is. Aerith bites her numb lip hard enough to draw blood (it’s becoming a familiar taste) in a bid to maintain her crumbling composure.

He squares his shoulders and turns once more. Violent intent flashes in his glowing eyes as he stalks toward her, sword in hand. She takes a step back; he takes a step forward. The crunch of their footsteps drifts and echoes throughout the silent valley. The Planet’s tears and tremors surge through her.

She braces herself. She can fight or run, and the former’s outcomes left something to be desired.

Aerith turns on her heel and fights against the traction of the snow to dart up the slope. Her heartbeat pounds frantically in her ears as she trips and attempts to scale the rest of the incline on all fours. She stifles a terribly timed sob — _Please, not again, I can’t do it again—_

A hand grabs and grips her bicep, attempting to lift her up and turn her around. Fueled by spite, she resists.

“Just stop! I don’t want to look at you,” she chokes out between her weeping, gripping at the snow in a futile attempt to seek purchase. As though that will change anything — as though she even possesses the power to change anything.

Sephiroth freezes behind her. The agonizing seconds of silence dangle her fate in front of her, taunting her.

“You must understand,” he says quietly, “that this has nothing to do with you.”

This moment of calm clarity disarms her. He plunges his sword into her once more, and no amount of prescience can prepare her for the searing sensation of cold steel. She tumbles face first into the snow. She’s never been one to resign herself to her fate, but then her fate never appeared so clear as it does now. The lingering tears on her eyelashes turn to frost.

“I’ll be taking this,” he says as he plucks the White Materia from her ribbon. His digits linger on her hair just a moment longer than they should, a fact that offends her even as she straddles the line between two worlds. The crunch of footsteps resounds in the air once more — close and loud at first, fading gradually, then morphing into a distant, familiar dream.


	4. IV. Calamitosa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 4 notes:  
> → thank you again for your kind support, everyone! ♥  
> → the next chapter will likely go up in about three weeks. i’m currently traveling to visit family, so my writing time has been limited.

“Aerith! _Aerith_! Calm down, please!”

She coughs and dry heaves and grabs frantically at the middle of her chest, feeling for a hot, wet depression, leaking and dripping onto her dress, dyeing it red —

“Damn it! Get a hold of yourself, kid!”

She can’t forget that feeling, so deeply imprinted within her ribcage, and she wants it to be there, she wants the sticky heat of blood between her fingers, she wants it to _end_ —

Gloved hands pin her wrists to the bed, forcing her to cease her wild thrashing. Panicked tears pool in the corners of Tifa’s eyes as she holds Aerith down. Barret’s wide chest heaves up and down; beads of sweat sluice down the sides of his head and neck, shining in the candlelight.

Aerith finally stays still as the rigid grip of panic relents and releases its hold on her. The tension escapes her muscles and her limbs go limp. The smell of pine and dust fills her senses once again, and as much as she’s come to despise it, she can’t deny that it’s familiar — an emblem of stability.

Tifa lets go of Aerith’s hands and Barret takes a generous step back. Aerith’s eyes dart over to Cloud’s slumbering form. Did none of that really wake him?

“Aerith?” Tifa says, wringing her hands.

She parts her lips to speak, but the words are lodged deep inside her throat, and she isn’t sure she has the energy to expel them.

“Maybe we should leave ‘er be,” Barret suggests.

“...I’m awake.”

It takes all the willpower she can gather to sit up in bed. She leans back against the headboard and closes her eyes. A dull throb emanates through her skull.

“You look like you’ve seen hell,” Barret continues. “You that rattled by what happened?”

Aerith shakes her head. “No, just a nightmare.”

Tifa and Barret exchange skeptical glances. She grimaces, acutely aware of the responsibility of defusing the tension landing squarely on her shoulders.

“I’ll be okay, promise. I just need a second,” she assures with a manufactured smile. “Could I be alone for a little bit? I’ll come out there soon.”

Apparently it’s a sufficient request, as Tifa’s features soften and she nods. Barret shakes his head but acquiesces nonetheless as he moves to exit the room, whispering back and forth with Tifa as they cross the threshold into the main room.

A deep and weary sigh escapes her lungs as she throws the sheets off of her, revealing a map of bruises on her legs once more. Her finger twitches; she needs to make sure of something else. She looks once, then twice, to assure that Cloud is still asleep and that no one is about to enter the room. She shrugs her jacket off and slides the straps of her dress down her shoulders, letting them hang loosely about her, before rolling it down to her midriff.

She peers down at her bare chest, and — nothing. She traces a finger along her sternum where a scar should surely stain her skin. It’s smooth, unblemished. It’s all intact.

Aerith slowly slides against the headboard and sinks back into bed, drawing her knees up to her chest — her pristine, unwounded chest.

She swallows down a whimper and waits.

* * *

“What’s wrong, Aerith? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Aerith can’t even muster the artifice of amusement when Red repeats himself after she walks to join the others at the cemetery, just as she did before — no, he doesn’t repeat himself. He simply says what he was meant to say all along.

She hops up onto the wooden fence, the very same that she sat upon yesterday. With an anxious smile, she repeats, “Do I? I _feel_ like I’ve seen one.”

“Understandable. We’ve all been under quite a lot of stress.”

The scratch of footsteps. Cloud reappearing. The mechanical exchange between them. It doesn’t deviate, fails to surprise. A question in Cloud’s scowl, a question that she can’t bring herself to answer. She doesn’t even know if she possesses the answer anymore.

They reconvene as Barret once again prompts them for their next move.

“Sephiroth’s got the Black Materia and we got no clue where he’s heading next,” he says, mirroring the words of yesterday.

It’s not just the Black Materia; he stole the White Materia from her. Did that carry over to her current reality? Inexplicably, it never crossed her mind to check. She reaches back and feels for the bead nestled at the center of her ribbon. Her fingers graze a glassy surface and a sigh of relief bubbles in her chest, but it’s short-lived when she recalls that she still cannot summon Holy. There’s no guarantee that he would still be waiting at the City of the Ancients — perhaps he assumes that she’s intelligent enough to have given up by now.

Is that a risk she’s willing to take?

“Where do you think he’s going, Cloud?” Tifa asks.

No, it’s not.

“Beats me, to be honest,” he admits, scratching his head.

It’s perplexing, the way some things stay the same and the way other things change with each repetition. Barret and Tifa’s words remain unaltered, yet Cloud’s are different. It’s as confusing as it is quotidian, she thinks as she picks stray splinters off of the wooden beams.

“So,” Yuffie says, “we’re stuck. Where do we go now?”

 _North. He’s still heading north,_ a voice urges inside her.

She murmurs, “North.”

Tifa averts her gaze from Cloud toward Aerith. “North?”

“That’s where Sephiroth is going,” she continues quietly.

The same thought skips across all of their minds, so much so that none of them dare to speak the obvious. Cid produces a matchbook from his pocket, swipes a match against the phosphorus, lights his cigarette, and takes a long, luxurious drag. Wisps of smoke wrap themselves around him. Red’s glues his gaze to his paws. Yuffie tosses a piece of materia up into the air and snatches it back before it falls to the ground, repeating the process as she pointedly avoids looking at the rest of them.

“How do you know that?” Cloud finally asks. In his typical fashion, the question comes out more like an accusation.

She doesn’t want to consider the cost of that information. She doesn’t want to think of what she has paid and what she will continue to pay with each iteration.

“I had a dream, but I think it was more like a premonition. I saw him going up a snowy hill. There was a town at the top,” Aerith says, trying to keep her composure anchored firmly to the ground beneath her feet as it threatens to escape her. “We don’t have any better clues, do we?”

“Do we really got nothin’ better than a dream to work off of?” Cid says.

“What, you have any better ideas?” Yuffie lobs a pebble in his direction, eliciting a string of colorful curses.

“Hol’ on. Think about it for a sec. The Northern Crater’s where the Planet’s got a big old wound, don’t it? Maybe Sephiroth’s plan’s got something to do with that,” Cait Sith posits as he scratches his whiskers. “He did say something about the Planet’s wounds back at that temple.”

They prattle on and on and debate and deliberate and she begins to realize that none of it _means_ anything to her anymore. She scowls and sinks her fingernails into the wood she’s perched upon. What does it matter that Sephiroth is approaching the north? The south? The east, the west? She’ll die no matter where she goes and regardless of whether she follows him or not, whether she tries to summon Holy or not, whether she attempts to do anything to tame their fate or not. She’ll wake up in the same room smelling of pine and dust, having the same conversations with people who are morphing into strangers before her eyes.

No, they’re not strangers. She’s the stranger now.

“Even if we’re wrong, we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we get to it,” Tifa says with a sigh.

“Then it’s decided? We’re gonna go up there?” Yuffie tucks her materia back into the clip on her shuriken.

Barret kicks the dirt. “We got no other choice.”

The joviality of yesterday’s expedition is gone, replaced by disquietude and distrust. That fact bothers Aerith, eats at her more than it should, but it makes sense. They’re riding on nothing more than a suspicion — one that she proposed, no less. Anomie is beginning to erode her willpower; she never felt like an outsider among their party, only that she was exceptional. That’s beginning to change.

They move to make their way out of Gongaga, and Cloud wastes no time in approaching her with such a stern countenance that it gives her pause.

“Something isn’t right,” he asserts. “Are you...upset about what happened?”

This again. She rubs the bridge of her nose.

“No. I just...feel like I’ve been through a lot. I’m sure you feel the same way, right?”

His contrite gaze burns holes in her conscience, forming an intricate constellation of guilt for all her white lies. “I’d be lying if I said no. But I’m the one who hurt you — it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re okay.”

His words should set her heart at ease, but as has become customary, they backfire — unbeknownst to him.

Once more, they depart Gongaga for yet another pin on their map; once more, she plucks a piece of rosemary from the bush and slips it inside her pocket, resting against her heart with each paradoxical beat.

* * *

The journey to the north is far less time-consuming on the Tiny Bronco than it was via caravan-hopping. She sidles up next to Red while the other members of their party seize the opportunity to rest their eyes as Cid helms the plane.

His coarse fur brushes against her skin, whetting her hunger for the touch of another. Elmyra’s hugs, Zack ruffling her hair and peppering her face with kisses, even a stranger’s adoring caresses — the memories of which taunt and torment her now — it may have seemed like nothing to any of them, but it was everything to her. When was the last time someone held her, well and truly?

Red’s amber eyes glimmer, reflecting the late afternoon sunlight bouncing off the water, when he looks at her in his periphery. “You should rest. You had a fitful sleep.”

She shakes her head and laughs despite herself. “I did, but I guess I’d rather be awake with a friend than asleep right now.”

“There’s something weighing you down, isn’t there?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Your shoulders are slumped. I’ve noticed that humans do that when something troubles them.”

Aerith’s mouth quirks up in a crooked, amused smile. “Then I guess you’d notice other things too. You’ve seen how humans hug each other, right?”

Cautiously, he replies, “Yes, I have.”

“Has anyone ever held you like that?”

Red tilts his head from one side to the other, sifting through his recollections for something that may apply, before the place where human eyebrows would be shoots up in recognition.

“Grandpa held me, once. It was after my mother died — I must have been fifteen years old. He did what all humans seem inclined to do when their loved one mourns, even though physical affection isn’t common among my kind.” Red closes his eyes, bathing in the warm glow of the memory. “But in that moment, I understood. It was like his arms were shielding me from the pain.”

That’s an apt description. She felt safe, invincible, in her birth mother and even Elmyra’s arms.

There were other times she felt that way. The thought twists a stake into her heart.

“Humans need touch. But that’s hard to get when you’re alone...when people don’t really know you. And I don’t know if it’s because I’m scared of other people or if they’re scared of me,” she admits, turning to face the water and resting her chin on her hand.

Red reads between her lines and moves to relax on his side, folding his legs beneath him. “You may pet me if you wish.”

She chuckles and scratches behind his ear. “You’re a good friend, you know that?”

“Be careful. Grandpa might say that you’re giving me a big head.” Any traces of tension in his muscles vanish beneath her touch as he yields to her ministrations. “You are the last of your kind. I am joined only by a few. You are a good friend too, but you are lonely...as am I.”

Nanaki. That was his birth name, wasn’t it? Perhaps she should start to think of him as he truly is. She strokes Nanaki’s fur with one hand and lets the other dangle off the edge of the ship, her fingertips skimming across the surface of the water, as they sail past isle after isle, land after land, before the lumbering, snow-kissed mountains begin to peek over the horizon.

* * *

“W-We didn’t think th-this through, didn’t we?”

“Shoulda...shoulda stopped and got… _some_ kinda coat...or somethin’...”

She shakes her head. She had tried to say something shortly after they had disembarked, but they were too eager to reach the north yet far too complacent with the western continent’s fair weather. Now, they face the slope leading up to the village at the top.

Cloud clenches his teeth and spits his words out hastily. “Nothing we can do now. We just have to move on ahead.”

“G-Good idea,” Tifa says. Poor thing — she and Yuffie have the worst of it.

They begin their trek up the slope. This snowy, familiar slope. Today it storms where yesterday it was clear. It was clear and quiet as her blood seeped into the snow and cascaded down the hill. She can see it behind her eyes with nauseating clarity.

The world around her tilts on its axis — it tilts and spins so swiftly that she might be hurled off the face of the planet any moment now. Her breaths grow steadily more shallow, labored, and she clamors to grip Cloud’s shoulder, his arm, anything to remind her that she’s here right now.

“Let’s hurry,” she urges loudly as the wind threatens to whisk her words away.

Cloud hesitates and makes no effort to conceal his concern, but he continues trudging upward, allowing her to hold onto him without comment.

After what feels like a thousand trials, the top of the slope seems within their reach. Lights begin to come into view, focusing as though through a camera lens; the dark umber silhouettes of log cabins peer through the misty grey of the hail and fog.

“O-Oh, thank _gods_ ,” Yuffie groans, nearly tumbling into the snow.

“Just a little more.” Vincent sighs and wraps his hand around her thin bicep before nearly dragging her to the top, the rest of them following suit soon after.

A modest, lacquered wooden sign greets them: _Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ Iᴄɪᴄʟᴇ Iɴɴ_.

Their first order of business is to fork over a painful amount of gil in the endeavor of purchasing appropriate outerwear (“A-About time,” Yuffie grumbles); when they’re aptly clothed, they reconvene near the welcome sign.

“We should take the time to ask around and explore,” Cloud says to them. “If anyone here has seen a man in a black cape, we’ll know we’re in the right place.”

“Prob’ly better to split up and meet back at that inn,” suggests Cid, scratching his stubble.

They informally split into three groups — Barret, Tifa, and Cloud in one; Nanaki, Aerith, and Yuffie in another; and Cid, Cait Sith, and Vincent in the last. Aerith’s group takes the north side of the town, where each villager proves to be a dead end. All but one, a small boy who confesses to seeing a man with “really, really, really long hair” passing around their town, traversing the stout peaks that border the hamlet.

“Welp, we got what we needed. I’m heading back ‘cuz I need some soup or somethin’,” Yuffie declares as she stretches lazily.

“Will you come with us, Aerith?” Nanaki asks.

“I think I’ll go catch up with Cloud’s group. Go get something warm to eat.” Aerith ruffles his fur and he rewards her with an appreciative pur.

The two of them run off, leaving her to her own devices. She makes her way toward the west side of town, no more comforted knowing that Sephiroth is nearby than she felt when she was uncertain.

Cloud and the others are nowhere to be seen when she arrives. Have they already returned to the inn? It’s possible. She frowns and moves to march toward the inn when she hears the telltale creak of a door. She freezes in her tracks, just out of their sight, though she can still see them clearly from her vantage point behind the facade of an unlit house.

Cloud leaves first, followed by Tifa. They descend the steps wordlessly. Adjacent to one another, they appear as twin ghosts, pale and petrified. Tifa leans toward Cloud and the wind swallows fragments of her statement, rendering them unintelligible to Aerith’s ears.

“We can move on...we...let her see that.”

Cloud paces around silently. Tifa places her hand over her mouth. Their unique brands of grief encumber them, weighing them down like yokes fastened to their necks.

The question of what they’re agonizing over stokes the flames of her curiosity. Is the “her” that Tifa mentioned Aerith? Yuffie? Someone else? What could be so dreadful, so calamitous, that they need to conceal its existence from one of them after everything they’ve experienced?

Cloud says something that she can’t quite catch and Tifa reluctantly turns on her heel. He follows her and they walk through the snow toward the inn — side-by-side close enough that their arms brush against each other, she notes with a pang of longing.

Once she’s satisfied that no one is around to spy on her, Aerith traipses across the frosty, frozen earth toward the house, making every effort to stifle the sound of her footsteps. She walks up the steps and stands before the door as she wills her frantic heart to slow its beat. The passage of time and temperamental weather has plunged the house’s stony façade into a pitiable state of disrepair. Cracks cut through the stones like tributaries of ice. Electric energy tingles in her mittened fingers — a shaky sigh escapes her chapped lips. Has she seen this place before? No, she couldn’t have. She didn’t make it this far last time and she’s never traveled this far up north before that.

Her trembling hand hovers over the weathered door knob. If she could just turn it, step inside, see for herself —

“Aerith.”

She turns to see Barret standing right behind her, brows knit in uncharacteristic melancholy, looking for all the world like the bearer of bad news.

“C’mon. We’re leaving,” he says tersely. An ineffable grief — similar to that of Cloud and Tifa — colors his scowl.

“I was just going to see what was in here first. I’ll be quick, promise,” she insists. A swelling sense of urgency washes over her; a desperate need to exhume the secrets behind this door consumes her.

Barret lifts his hand and places it on her shoulder with surprising tenderness.

“Some things are just better left alone, kid. Take it from me.”

She tenses. “Why are Tifa and Cloud allowed to know and not me?”

Barret withdraws his hand and weighs the question, churning it in his mind, before responding.

“If you go in there, we might not be able to bring you back to us.”

His sincerity isn’t lost on her. She purses her lips and steps away from the door.

“I’ll find out eventually,” she proclaims, straightening her back. “But you’re right. Maybe now’s not the time.”

An uneasy silence suspends itself between them as they head back in the direction of the inn, and the ghost of what lurks behind that weathered door wraps around her neck — an ethereal noose — as they shuffle through the snow.

* * *

After debriefing at the inn, she and the rest of their party resume their journey. They sail down the slopes on the other end of Icicle Inn toward the valley at the bottom. As it turned out, the village was at the apex of the snowcaps; mountainous caverns await them at their descent.

“If we can make it past these caves, we’ll be close to the Northern Crater,” Vincent says as they all look up at the towering wall before them, lined with shelves and laden with cliffs. “Be ready to climb.”

“Tell me I’m not the only one ready for this shit to be over.” Cid rubs his face, grey and dull with exhaustion, with a gloved hand.

“I don’t think anyone here’s enough of a freak to be enjoying any of this,” Yuffie retorts.

They weave their way through the maze of caves, climbing out of one only to find themselves in another. The air grows thinner and Aerith can tell that they’re close to the surface. In one particularly claustrophobic cave, a beam of light pierces the otherwise thick veil of darkness. She hurries over and grips the cracks in the wall to scale upwards and squeeze through the narrow opening.

“Guys, I think I — ”

She turns around, expecting to see them behind her, only to find a cluster of indigo clouds and an orange sky staring back at her. Blinking slowly, she continues to look around, waiting for them to emerge from the opening in the ceiling of the caverns. After a few moments, there’s still no sign of them. She knits her brows together. Did they not hear her climbing the wall? At any rate, she should probably go back in there and search for them.

“Lost, are you?”

That voice. That damned voice that freezes her blood and warps time itself. She squeezes her eyes shut and stands there statuesque. She should have anticipated this. The sparse air at this high altitude muffles the sound of his footsteps as he approaches her.

“Did you find me alone on purpose?”

“As convenient as this is, no.”

“You already have what you want,” she spits. “Just leave me be.”

Sephiroth plants his hand on her shoulder and forces her to face him. “You’re wrong. I only have part of what I want.”

The implications behind that statement tie her stomach into knots and, to her own chagrin, she can’t help but cower, shrinking before him.

“I’m tired of this. Aren’t you?” she asks, staving away the desperation threatening to leak into her voice.

He releases his hold on her and stabs Masamune into the earth, folding his arms. “...It is vexing, I admit. But I will continue to do what I must, both to break this cycle and to proceed as planned.”

“And what if we’ll never break free unless you give up?”

“Impossible. Unlike you, I can sense why this is happening,” he says blithely. “I didn’t expect a Cetra to be so clueless.”

“You said you’d kill me however many times it takes.” She straightens her back, standing at her full height, hoping her eyes are as serrated as his and cut just as deep.

“However many times it takes,” he iterates, lifting Masamune from the ground and tightening his grip on the hilt.

Something lingers behind his words. A lack of conviction, a shadow of a doubt. It can’t just be her imagination.

“Go on, then. Maybe this will be the time that does it.” Angry tears hang heavy on her eyelashes, clouding her vision.

He peers at Masamune, weighing his options, before looking back at her.

“No.”

She laughs humorlessly. “No? You’re telling me you came all this way just to talk?”

He doesn’t answer, instead taking a step toward her and extending a hand toward her face. Her breath hitches in her throat and she instinctively brings her hands up to shield herself. He may have just implied that he has no intention to kill her, but it would not surprise her if he reneged on such a thing moments later. That’s simply whom he’s become.

She squeezes her eyes shut and waits for her fate. Again. Another piece of her heart chipped away, another ounce of willpower drained.

But what she had been waiting for never arrives and all she feels is a hand cupping her cheek instead of the frigid taste of steel impaling her gut. She tentatively opens her eyes and looks into his. His enigmatic smile, softer than his typical smirk, stirs sleeping memories with her. He tilts his head and regards her with an acidic mix of affection and arrogance.

“What could you tell me that I don’t already know, Aerith?”

Her arms tremble and her words coagulate into a lump in her throat. A glimpse of the man she knew before stands in front of her — a ghost superimposed onto a monster.

Sephiroth capitalizes on her relaxed defenses and tears the White Materia from her ribbon, eliciting a pained cry. She withdraws from his touch and stumbles backward. The burn of his gloved fingers lingers on her cheek.

“This is not mercy. I will kill you again if that is what I must do,” he intones, tucking the materia into a clip around his waist.

He partially turns away from her, his profile still visible. Something changes in his expression — he furrows his brows, mildly perplexed, possibly annoyed. His eyes trace the string of footsteps in the snow.

“That scent…”

Aerith knits her brows together, still dwelling on his flagrant manipulation. She doesn’t smell anything around them.

Then, at once, the realization hits her with the force of a hurricane and her eyes widen. The rosemary. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches into her jacket pocket and extracts the sprig, twirling it between her fingers.

“You remember it, right?” Her acrid words are foreign to her own ears. That’s not the voice of Aerith Gainsborough — it’s someone else, someone who closely resembles her enough to replace her.

His expression is a mosaic of myriad emotions, all of them similarly inscrutable. Confusion? Irritation? A hint of longing? His eyes dart around, betraying his internal battle.

“Yes. But what I said before still stands. It doesn’t matter now, and it never will again, sweet Aerith.”

The sarcastic term of endearment rings harshly in her ears, unforgiving. When he turns on his heel and descends down the incline, marching toward the horizon, she does not chase after him. His silhouette shrinks with each step, merging with the blood red sun, until he disappears completely. Lips slightly parted ( _flushed pink, she imagines_ ), she stares at the spot where he once stood and rubs her cheek raw to rid herself of his touch.

“Aerith.”

Cloud’s voice rouses her from her reverie. She turns to see him, joined by the others, standing at the foot of the cliff just above the cave.

“That was Sephiroth, wasn’t it?” Nanaki asks.

“Why were you talking to each other like that?” Tifa’s eyes narrow in ostensible distrust.

They’re putting her on trial. Aerith hadn’t realized that she was shivering until this very moment. Her fraught breaths come out as quick, visible puffs in the thin winter air. She turns to face the horizon once more, eyes fixed on the spot where he once stood.

“You all saw that?” she asks listlessly, continuing to twirl the rosemary sprig between her fingers.

“We saw enough.” Cloud’s sharp voice and gelid gaze slice right through her soul.

Barret turns his head, eyes narrowing and widening in tandem — vacillating between indignation and puzzlement. “First you knew where he was goin’, now you’re talkin’ to him like you’re old pals. What’s going on here?”

She doesn’t have the energy to take offense at their assumptions. She curses her own selfishness, curses it for creating this venomous coil of resentment deep in the pit of her stomach. It’s not their fault. She chose to refrain from telling them anything, and now she is reaping her rewards for that choice. Yet, this nascent sense of rage threatens to set her convictions ablaze. How dare they accuse her of consorting with him? They don’t understand — they _can’t_ understand — everything that it took to get here, what emotions rule her —

“We’re wasting time,” Vincent interjects.

“Yeah, that’s right! The longer we stand around, the further ahead that clown gets!” Yuffie ceases her melodramatic teeth chattering ands stands up straight, nearly swallowed by her comically large coat. She sweeps a judgmental glance across the group. “Besides, you guys are really tryin’ to say she’s shacking up with that guy? Doesn’t it make more sense that he was just being a creep?”

Nanaki nods and looks to Cloud and Tifa. “We know now that Sephiroth is a good manipulator. I can’t imagine Aerith would willingly allow him to take her materia.”

 _Not just any materia,_ she thinks to herself as an image of her mother’s smiling face surfaces in her mind’s eye.

“Can we, uh, save the drama for later? Now’s not the time, folks!” Cait Sith says pointedly.

Amidst murmured assent, the others begin to march forward, following Sephiroth’s trail of footsteps. The snow morphs into cement, gluing her feet to the ground.

He spared his sword. She’s still alive. Why can’t she allow herself to feel happier about that?

She steals one more glance at the rosemary spray before tucking it back into her jacket pocket — right against her still-beating heart.


	5. V. Nivosa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> → as always, thank you for all of your lovely feedback! i’m very heartened by the warm reception to my first foray into anything longer than a oneshot and thank you for joining me for this ride. i do want to say that i’m open to constructive criticism; i always strive to improve.  
> → i happened to take some liberties with crisis core’s timeline from this point forward, so if you notice any discrepancies, i humbly request your suspension of disbelief.  
> → i expect that the next chapter will go up in about a week.

_Tseng brushed past him in the sixtieth floor hallway, brisk and in an uncharacteristic state of disarray. Strands of hair fell from his ponytail to hang in front of his wan face as he pressed his phone to his ear — he did not spare even a cordial glance in Sephiroth’s direction, a fact that did not go unnoticed given his typical professional manners._

_“...he’s now affiliated with Aerith Gainsborough. The Cetra, yes. Fair was sighted in the slums…”_

_His voice dwindled to a distant echo as he turned the corner behind Sephiroth. The echo of his footsteps against the linoleum lingered and hung thickly in the air, taunting him with knowledge that Tseng possessed but he had not yet been afforded._

_He walked into the elevator and mechanically swiped his key card, even as he wrestled the urge to follow Tseng wherever he’d been going. Thank the gods for the ironclad self-control that had been beaten into him._

_Aerith Gainsborough. That had been a name lost to the annals of time, but it resounded rhythmically in his mind like a mantra and snared him in its dark undertow._

_He lifted a finger to the glass wall of the elevator and traced lines between the lights that illuminated the sprawling city below, connecting fabricated dots. Where was she now? In the slums, yes, but where? Sector Five? Six, Seven, Eight? Slumping against a hut and sleeping, caked in filth? Forced to sell herself to the night? Where did she live? Where did she work? Who did she love? What had that little girl grown up to be? Kind and genuine, or bitter and vengeful toward those who wronged her?_

_A hundred questions darted through his mind, screaming for answers — and now, if his suspicions were correct, Zack Fair knew them._

_The glass door receded as he reached the twentieth floor. As guileless as Fair was, Sephiroth knew better than to reveal a connection that could prove so costly to both himself and the girl. If Hojo had ever known or even suspected anything, he had never indicated as much. He would keep it that way._

_Sephiroth stepped out into the hallway. The bland designs of each floor blended together at that point, blotches of pale blue and grey, rendering them indistinct. The monotony of the fluorescent lights, the linoleum — the resentment at being watched at every corner — it all had begun to kindle a fire in him, a fire that could raze Gaia to ashes if he allowed it. Shinra’s prized possession could only leave its gilded cage to kill._

_The sound of snapping plastic sliced through the air. He looked down into his hand; the key card was split in two._

_He would get his answers from the boy._

* * *

“I don’t know if I can make it, guys.”

Yuffie comes to a halt and bends over, placing both hands on her knees. Her button nose is tinted red from the cold, contrasting with her pale cheeks.

The rest of them put on brave faces, but Aerith can see the effects of physical and emotional exhaustion written all over them. She’s no exception, though perhaps for different reasons.

Cid glares at Yuffie, gritting his teeth and retreating further into his blue parka. “Sh-Shit...don’t be such a whiner!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“Can you both sh...shut up? Y’all are giving me a m-migraine,” Barret says, rubbing his hand furiously against his arm for warmth even through his coat.

She pants and slumps her shoulders. She’s lost count of the hours they’ve spent trudging across the plains and slopes blanketed in snow.

“Should we split up into groups and look for a place where we can take a break?” Tifa asks.

“I don’t know. If we did that and one group got in trouble, there wouldn’t be an easy way to backtrack.” Aerith rubs her mittened hand against her chin in thought.

Yuffie breathes rapidly into her hands, rubbing them together furiously. “I agree with that!”

“But let’s stagger out so we’re not in one big group. Three in the front, three in the middle, three in the back,” Cloud says.

Aerith, Yuffie, and Cloud already informally comprise the first group in the front. The others stratify into their own groups behind them. Satisfied, Cloud motions for them to start moving again.

As they walk, she feels no closer to their indeterminate destination than she did a few hours ago. It’s white upon white as far as the eye can see, marred only by the occasional silhouette of grey mountains situated behind a translucent curtain of haze.

“Are you okay, Cloud? You look pale,” Aerith says, noting with grim displeasure the manner in which his lips seem to match his skin in hue.

An answer never comes from those lips — it’s as though he didn’t hear her at all. He staggers along silently while Yuffie mutters curses under her breath. His pace grows sluggish, ungainly, before he loses his footing and falls face first into the snow with a dull thud.

“Shit!” she shouts. They both stop in their tracks; Yuffie turns to look back at the others trailing behind them. They can’t see past the veil of the blizzard to notice that Cloud has fallen, leaving the two of them to haul him up. She groans as she drapes one of Cloud’s arms around her shoulder. “Ugh, this guy! You know what I told him back at that inn? To eat somethin’ while he still could. And ya know what he did? He ate a whole lot of _air_.”

“And he’s wearing a jacket? Oh, Cloud, what are we going to do with you?” With an indignant pout, Aerith slides his other arm — surprisingly slender for someone in SOLDIER — around her shoulders so that he hangs limply between the two of them.

They wander, time melting into an amorphous abstraction, growing ever more anxious before Aerith spots something beyond the grey haze of the snowstorm. She squints and a faint yellow light comes into focus, several yards away, if she had to guess.

“Hey, do you see that light? I bet there’s a house up there,” Aerith says. She juts her finger toward the shadow of the house.

Her partner doesn’t seem convinced. In fact, if she rolled her eyes any harder, they would tumble right out of her skull. “Yeah, right. As if anybody’d be crazy enough to live out here.”

Aerith picks up her pace, forcing Yuffie to match her stride. The house comes into clearer focus and Yuffie straightens her back so abruptly that Cloud nearly slips from Aerith’s grasp.

“If you say ‘told you so,’ I’m makin’ off with this materia and never coming back.”

They stagger up the shallow slope over to the front door. Aerith raps her clothed knuckles against the door three times and looks down at Cloud’s pallid form, praying to whatever entity willing to listen that someone opens the damn door.

Nothing but the wind answers her knocks. Yuffie huffs and bangs her fist against the door, hollering, “Hey! I dunno who’s in there, but you better come out and help us! We got fire materia and we’re not afraid to use it!”

Aerith wilts. “I don’t know how much goodwill that’s going to get us.”

Finally, a man opens the door, flooding them in warm, yellow light.

“Gods!” he cries, eyes wide. “Come in before you all freeze to death.”

The sound of feet stomping through the snow approaches before they have the chance to cross the threshold. She turns to see Barret, joined by Tifa and Nanaki, balking at the sight of Cloud dangling between them.

“What the hell happened to ‘im?” asks Barret.

“Hypothermia,” the man says before Aerith has the opportunity to reply. “Let’s thaw him out in front of the fire.”

He ushers them into the modest cabin. It’s claustrophobic and sparsely furnished, with a kitchenette in the corner of the room and a sofa and loveseat surrounding the fireplace.

“I’ll bring a blanket for the boy,” he says as he ascends the staircase to the right.

Bushy brows, steel blue eyes, a face etched with age. Shuttered away from the world, alone, at the precipice of the elements. She tenses and scans the house for any visible weapons.

While Yuffie and Aerith lay Cloud down by the fireplace, the last of their party join them, standing by the wall and allowing the furniture to go unoccupied.

“Y-You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.” Cid’s teeth continue to chatter, even after he closes the door behind him. “If this schmuck had just worn a real coat…”

“He’s hardly more than a boy. Boys don’t have much forethought,” Vincent says blithely.

The staircase creaks and the man returns with the blanket. He spreads it out over Cloud, enveloping him, before turning to face them.

“Now that he’s safe, I ought to introduce myself. My name is Holzoff. I’ve been living here for twenty years now, and if you all plan on heading north, you’d better listen to me.”

He takes a seat at the edge of the sofa, placing his bony hands on his knees.

“It was thirty years ago when my friend — Yamski was his name — and I tried to climb the cliff,” he begins, his eyes reflecting the crimson embers of the fire. “We weren’t prepared at all. We never thought a place so cold could exist on this planet. Yamski was below me...he cut his own rope. I didn’t even notice. When you’re under that kind of stress, you don’t even think about it. By the time I realized, it was too dangerous for me to try to go back and get his body.”

A pregnant silence permeates the cabin. In her periphery, Barret’s dark eyes glaze over.

“You don’t fear death when you’re young. Even if you know it might be coming, it doesn’t seem like it’s the end.”

She grips the edge of the blanket, trying to let his words slide off her. Her chest throbs.

“So that’s why I’m here now. It’s to warn folks like you about what you’re up against.” Holzoff sweeps his gaze across all nine of them. “The first thing I can say is that you need to know what route you’re taking. If you get lost, there’s no coming back.”

“We gathered as much,” Vincent intones.

“I was going to suggest warming up when you get to the edge of a cliff, but that might not be necessary given the coats.” He creases his thick brows as he appraises their group from head to toe. “It’s good that you’re actually dressed for the occasion. I’ve seen some real fools try to scale these cliffs with no protective gear.”

“And they died,” Yuffie says flatly.

Holzoff’s gaze hardens. “Even the best prepared people sometimes never come back.”

He rises to his feet. This must be what a funeral parlor feels like. They didn’t have those in the slums — if the deceased was fortunate, their loved ones would find an isolated corner in the shadows and inter them however haphazardly, with nothing but fresh mounds of dirt to mark the makeshift graves. Most, however, were crudely cremated in open fires, where the outline of black bones was all that they left behind in this world. Even dead bodies were valued on the plates; while paging through a magazine at a vendor’s stall, she saw a photograph of a Sector 3 graveyard carpeted with grass and festooned with headstones.

She brushes a strand of hair out of Cloud’s face. She’s already been buried in water and snow. Maybe fire and earth are next.

“Regardless, you all should rest before going back out there. I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”

He stalks over to the staircase and climbs up with languid, deliberate steps. The wooden stairs, splintered from decades of use, creak under each footstep. It doesn’t take long for her companions to surrender to sleep in the warmth of the crackling fire. Only Yuffie remains awake, arranging and rearranging materia on her shuriken as she leans against the wall.

“You heard him. You should get some rest,” Aerith says lightly, shaking off the remnants of the morbid subject at hand from her mind. She meanders toward her and sits against the wall, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Yuffie plops down next to her and stretches her legs out. “Nah. I’m too worked up. For now, at least.”

A companionable silence settles between them as the others sleep — Cloud on the blanket, Cid on the sofa, Tifa in the loveseat, the rest of them scattered on the floor. But silence invites the questions that the day leaves no room for.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“You already did,” Yuffie says with a twinkle of mischief in her dark eyes. “But yeah, what is it?”

She hesitates. Is this the right time to broach the topic? Will there ever be a right time? For as resilient as Yuffie likes to fashion herself, her heart bears scars — just like the rest of them.

“You must have been little when the Wutai War happened. Do you remember anything from it?” she asks, plucking at the frayed threads lining the hem of her dress.

Yuffie purses her lips. Just as she did earlier that day, she produces a piece of materia from the clip on her shuriken and tosses it up into the air before snatching it again. She silently repeats the process for so long that Aerith begins to believe that she’s intentionally ignoring her.

“You ever see a person die?” she finally asks.

“...I have,” Aerith says quietly, gathering memories however unwillingly.

A man taking his last raspy breaths in an alleyway, sandwiched between garbage cans teeming with moldy fruit and yellowed newspapers. A woman running past the church, a scream ripping her lungs to shreds, before the unmistakable sound of blade driving into flesh tore through the air — twenty-one times over.

“Then you’re halfway there.” A sly but shallow smirk plays briefly on Yuffie’s lips before fading, leaving an inscrutable expression in its wake. “Imagine that, but everywhere you turn. One person goes down in front of you, so you run away — you run home, and before you’ve made it there, a dozen more people drop like flies on the way. And the whole time you’re scared shitless, absolutely _shitless_ that you’re next. It don’t matter if you’re a kid or if you’re the daughter of someone real important. You’re just a warm body.”

She takes a shaky breath and keeps the materia in her hand, curling her digits around the orb until her knuckles go as white as her coat.

“I was eight years old. I lost some friends, you know. Shinra didn’t care. Yeah, they didn’t kill kids if they could help it — but war’s fucking ugly, Aerith. I went into my friend’s house during one of the worst days. I was trying to hide — stupid me! I knew something was up. The air was stale and the smell — _Gods_. I went into the kitchen and my friend and his mom were face down in a pool of their own blood. Shot to death. There for who knows how long. The bodies had started to rot.” She crinkles her nose in disgust, even as tears threaten to spill from the trough of her eyes’ waterline.

Aerith places a hand on the forearm of Yuffie’s puffy coat as the latter pockets her materia and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

“And Sephiroth was there, right?”

“He was, and he killed people, make no damn mistake about that. But I don’t blame him as much as I blame the people above him.” Yuffie’s voice is thick and watery; her nose reddens even more.

“But why? How can you not blame someone who chose to do that?” Bitterness creeps steadily into her voice like potent, pulsating poison.

Yuffie’s eyes widen with incredulity.

“You don’t get it, huh? Sephiroth’s a murderer, but he’s nothin’ more than a puppet to Shinra. He was only fifteen or somethin’ when he came to Wutai the first time. Every SOLDIER is a puppet, even the best ones,” Yuffie says scornfully. “Truth is, we _all_ suffer because of ‘em…the big wigs, that is. Even shits like Sephiroth. I’m just tagging along to stick it to them — and because I kind of like being alive, and maybe I’ll get some materia out of it, too.”

She hadn’t expected the fiery wrath lurking just beneath the surface, jumping at the chance to reveal itself. All the same, she enjoys the ammunition against the perfidious part of her that wavers on what kind of person he truly is — even when she only ever saw the good in him.

“All right, I’m done answering your questions, detective. I gotta get my beauty sleep.” On cue, Yuffie yawns and stretches her arms before drawing up her fur-lined hood over her head. “Hey, you better get some sleep too. I’ll be real mad if you collapse on us like Chocobo Boy over there.”

The prospect of sleep pleases her burning eyes — they won’t have a minute of respite once they cross the threshold out of this house, after all. There’s something comforting about the nine of them, serene, crammed into a warm room like this. She always imagined that this was what big families did after eating a large meal together.

She pulls her hood over her face and closes her eyes.

* * *

They depart from Holzoff’s house at dawn the next morning. He descends his staircase in his leisurely gait, ready to see them off.

“Thanks for lodging us, Mr. Holzoff,” Aerith says with an appreciative grin.

“No problem at all. I consider it my duty.”

They work their way out of his home, one by one, and when they’ve all filed out into the snow once more, Holzoff calls after them.

“Be careful out there,” he warns. “If you freeze to death, no one’s going to bring your bodies home.”

* * *

Gaia’s Cliff lives up to its name. It dwarfs the last wall that they scaled before arriving at Holzoff’s house and towers over them with remorseless austerity. She can hear the Planet’s voice louder than ever before here, but there are no words — only droning moans.

Aerith pants heavily, sweating and crimson-cheeked, by the time they arrive at the rim of the crater. Cloud takes her hand and hoists her up over the edge. Her breath hitches — she squeezes his hand tightly, so tightly that the bones in her fingers could snap and splinter, at the sight that confronts her.

A geyser of Lifestream gushes from the gaping wound — the Planet’s blood. A thousand voices accost her, ringing in her ears and ricocheting against the walls of her consciousness. She plants her hand on the side of her head — the once warm and welcome voices now torment her with their anguished cries for help. She can’t help them. Even if she could, it’s all for naught if she can’t help herself.

Cloud keeps her hand in his as he leads her gently down the precipice. She moves one foot in front of the other, the movement automatic and stilted, before they stop to appraise what’s before them.

“Something fell from the sky and crashed here.” Cloud narrows his eyes, morose.

“And the Planet is trying to heal itself,” she laments.

“Do you hear what it’s saying?”

She shakes her head and kicks a pebble. “I hear it, but I don’t understand it.”

“Either way, Sephiroth’s going to use this energy to summon Meteor, and that’ll make this look like a scratch.”

No matter how right he is, that’s salt in the wound, a reminder of her potpourri of failures. She keeps silent and withdraws her hand, even as Tifa looks at her with a concerned frown. It resembles pity, but Tifa should know better than to pity her.

They continue down until they reach the foot of the slope. A slumped figure, cloaked in black, rasps out something unintelligible before collapsing into an indistinct heap.

“It’s a clone,” Cloud says solemnly, drawing his sword. “We’re getting close.”

They take a few steps forward until Cloud and Aerith realize that Tifa has stopped behind them. Aerith studies Cloud’s alarmed countenance and wonders if she betrays her emotions as readily as he does.

“We’re going after Sephiroth, right?” Tifa wrings her hands. “...I’ve lost a lot because of him.”

She doesn’t elaborate before she begins walking ahead of them, but then, she doesn’t need to. A sick sense of guilt curdles in the pit of Aerith’s stomach.

They hop across stone columns and charge through walls of wind as they close in on the throbbing heart of the Planet’s injury. They look to the skies to see an airship approaching them — Shinra, no doubt on their way to exacerbate a situation that they created with their own bloodstained hands. Yuffie’s words reverberate in her mind.

Another pair of stone columns. A cadre of clones, hunched over in their black hoods, hobble along in a single file line in the distance. Another wind passage. More clones. Every minute that passes without seeing him only serves feeds her anxiety.

“This is the end for all of you.”

That familiar voice stops them midstep. Ahead of them, Sephiroth swings his sword against two unfortunate clones, causing them to curl up against the gravel. Indignation bubbles in her chest and crests in her throat.

“Think about what you’re doing! You want to rule the Planet? There won’t be one after you’re through with it,” she says balefully, strands of hair whipping about her face in the wind. “What good is a god of nothing?”

Cloud grits his teeth, and had any other person been watching him, they might have missed what that action meant. Aerith turns her head from him to Tifa and back to him. Are either of them aware of what’s happening to him?

Sephiroth doesn’t turn to face them. “You will understand when you return to the Lifestream and become one with me. For now, this body has outlived its usefulness.”

His physical form vaporizes, but his aura still saturates the air.

“Be careful. He could still be here,” Tifa cautions, clenching her fists.

Cloud mutters something that she can’t make out and she’s never granted the opportunity to ask. A force collides with her back, ejects the air from her lungs, and knocks her to her hands and knees. She coughs and checks either side of her— Tifa and Cloud are similarly keeled over. A shadow engulfs them, and when she looks up, Jenova’s gruesome face stares right back at her.

After a brief struggle, the Jenova copy absconds, leaving two objects in its wake: the Black and White Materia. She heals the two of them to the best of her ability before tending to herself.

Cloud strides over and gathers the materia in either hand. “Jenova cells…I see. So that’s what this is. The Jenova Reunion.”

“That wasn’t the real Sephiroth?” Tifa asks.

Cloud shakes his head. “No. But the real one is just beyond here. I’ll explain later, but we’ve got the Black and White Materia back. I just want to defeat Sephiroth now. Once we do that, it’ll be over.”

“Wait,” Aerith says quickly. “He wouldn’t just drop those materia. He’s probably tricking us.”

He shrugs noncommittally. “That’s a good point, but we can’t just leave them there. Better that they’re in our hands than his.”

“We can’t let the Black Materia go anywhere near him,” Aerith says, knitting her eyebrows together decisively.

“You should take the White Materia. It’s yours, after all,” Cloud says, taking her hand and placing the materia in her palm. She should feel some degree of ecstasy coursing through her at the reclamation of something so precious, but as she stares into its green depths, all she feels is the steady thrum of resentment beating within her.

He supplies Barret with the Black Materia despite his initial objections, beseeching him to hold onto it at the cost of everything else if it comes to that.

“All right. This is it,” Cloud declares. He grips the handle of his sword, channeling the spirit of someone who came long before him. He doesn’t bother waiting for them and marches forward.

“Aerith,” Tifa says, looking at her out of the corner of her eyes once Cloud is far enough ahead of them. “You’re not on Sephiroth’s side, right?”

The question affronts her more than it should. She rolls the White Materia around in her hand, relishing in the feeling of it sliding against the fabric of her mittens. It anchors her here to the present despite the nagging urge to drift towards the past.

“How could I be, after everything?” she responds mechanically.

Tifa sighs with relief and regards her with a tenderness that stings. “That’s what I thought. I know you’ve lost a lot because of him, too. Let’s go take care of this.”

They advance, leaving the rest of their party behind. Just as they prepare to cross the threshold into the depths of the crater, a screeching sound pierces her eardrums like needles through skin. A white light floods her vision and throttles her senses; she brings her hands up to her face, but it persists undeterred.

“What? What’s going on?” Tifa’s voice, obfuscated by the wind, shouts out.

“Calm down. Sephiroth is close by. You need to be prepared for anything,” Cloud assures. He’s calm, disconcertingly so, which only further serves to tie Aerith’s nerves into knots.

She brings her hands away from her face. When her eyes have refocused and the pain at the acute influx of light has subsided, she’s no longer in the Northern Crater. They’re standing in a village — a village that, until recently, was nothing more than an abstract concept to her, a scathing symbol of the men who left her behind.

Nibelheim.


	6. VI. Luctuosa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> → as always, thank you for your sweet comments. they really mean the world to me and inspire me to keep going.  
> → i know i said this would be going up a week ago but i got a bit sidetracked by another little piece that took up some time. my apologies.  
> → i’ll be taking on a brief hiatus from posting; i’m going on vacation and then my work year starts again so i’ll be preoccupied with all the attendant duties. i’ll continue to edit and rewrite, but taking a short break will give me the opportunity to polish everything to the best of my ability. i’ll be back in a month or so! <3

_“Isn’t it something else? Who’da thought that flowers could grow in a place like Midgar? But hey, that’s Aerith for you!”_

_“Zack,” she objected with a blush, “you don’t have to make such a big deal out of it.”_

_He had brought the esteemed general there in a (potentially misguided) attempt to foster trust between them as they were passing through the slums. She had risen to her feet and brushed away the soil caked onto her knees. She wished that he would have given her just a_ slight _heads up that someone of such high rank would be joining them that day so that she could have worn something more impressive than a dress stained with dirt and chlorophyll._

_If Zack’s superior had noticed those imperfections, he failed to indicate as much. He turned to him and said, “You’ve been talking about the girl without even formally introducing us.”_

_Zack’s eyebrows shot up and a frazzled flush spread across his cheeks. “O-Oh! My bad. Aerith, this is Sephiroth. Sephiroth, Aerith.”_

_He extended his gloved hand and shook hers in a cordial handshake. “A pleasure.”_

_“The pleasure’s mine. I’ve heard a lot about you, General Sephiroth.”_

_“Likewise.”_

_He offered a reserved smile and she hesitated. There was a cryptic quality about it, as though he were harboring a secret, or privy to a pivotal morsel of knowledge of which she was unaware. Pouting, she glowered at Zack, silently chastising him for whatever information he happened to overshare with his boss._

_Zack’s eyes widened and he waved his hands apologetically, opening his mouth to clarify before his phone rang. The shrill sound pierced the serenity of the church and penetrated the stony walls. He grimaced and plucked the phone from his pocket. “Hold on guys, lemme take this.”_

_As he approached the back of the church, she turned her eyes back to Sephiroth. A simple glance at him validated everything that she had heard — fearsome, handsome, with a presence so imposing and commanding that it nearly struck her speechless; a stare so sharp that it dissected subjects with surgical precision._

_But there was something else. There was something else that she recognized in him, something that she could neither explain nor see. She maintained her polite smile, concealing the pain that inexplicably stirred within her._

_“Does Zack always drag you places?” she asked playfully._

_A glimmer of amusement flashed in his eyes. “No, not always. But I allowed him this time.”_

_“Oh?” She planted her hands on her hips. “I wonder what made this occasion so special.”_

_He never supplied an answer. He peered somewhere beyond her, eyes fixated on one particular plant. She raised an eyebrow and tracked his gaze, turning her head to see where exactly he was looking._

_“Oh, that over there? That’s rosemary.” Aerith sauntered over to the unassuming patch growing in the corner of the lot. “It doesn’t look like much, but it smells great if you burn it. You can cook with it too.”_

_Sephiroth squared his shoulders, appearing far more pensive than the situation called for. He stalked over to the patch, his footsteps echoing throughout the decrepit chapel, and stood next to her. Aerith looked up at him then, asking him a wordless question._

_“I was in Mideel,” he began as he bent over to survey the sprigs. Grief tinted his voice with a wistfulness that had made her heart ache for something she could not identify. “People had died. I left shortly after the funerals had commenced. They threw this plant into the graves.”_

_In that moment, she became acutely aware of the unbridgeable gulf between them, the diametric opposition of their lives. She had seen death, but not so much that it became a routine banality, anyway. The one occasion when it had directly confronted her felt so far away that it had become more of a dream than a memory._

_“Death is an ugly thing, isn’t it?” She ran her finger gingerly along the stiff leaves. “I guess we have to do what we can to make it beautiful.”_

_He shook his head and rose to his feet. “It can never be anything other than what it is.”_

_She frowned, remaining close to the rosemary and plucking one of the shoots from the soil. “...General, can I ask you something that might offend you?”_

_“Are you always so forward with strangers?” His voice was bereft of amusement, and her half-beat of hesitation prevented her from asking the question before the sound of footsteps against the stone floor interrupted them._

_“That was Lazard. Wants to talk about a mission, so we should be heading back,” Zack said as he approached them, sullen. “But if he didn’t call you first, I’m guessing he doesn’t need you. So take as long as you want!”_

_“That won’t be necessary.” Aerith must have telegraphed her hurt because he quickly added, “...as enjoyable as Ms. Gainsborough’s company is.”_

_Zack beamed, pleased with Sephiroth’s approval, and, with all his frenetic energy, was already on his way outside._

_Aerith thrust the fresh sprig of rosemary in Sephiroth’s direction and flashed a diplomatic smile. “Here, why don’t you take this? If you leave it out to dry, you can keep it with you for a long time.”_

_Nonplussed, he accepted the proffered spray. His fingertips had brushed against hers and a frisson immediately swept across the surface of her skin, sending a chill up her spine. She blushed despite herself._

_“And why would I do that?” he asked point-blank._

_She feigned offense and clutched her hand to her chest. “Do you always react like that when someone gives you something? It’s so you can remember our meeting today, of course!”_

_“Interesting choice, seeing that it’s used for mourning,” Sephiroth deadpanned. “Are you trying to tell me something?”_

_She hid her giggle behind her hand. “No. But if you ever come across an open grave, you’ll be prepared.”_

_He raised an eyebrow and twirled the sprig back and forth between his fingers. “You’re an unusual girl, Ms. Gainsborough.”_

* * *

“Nibelheim?”

Tifa stumbles backward, brows furrowed and eyes wide. The sight stirs a far more visceral reaction in her than it does in Aerith, but her stomach churns nonetheless when she sees the rustic cabins, the iron gate, the wooden fence, all situated under a canopy of gray clouds.

Cloud shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, Tifa. Just remember that it’s one of Sephiroth’s illusions and you’ll be fine. Let’s just keep moving ahead.”

Tifa assents with a nod and turns to proceed before stopping to look behind her shoulder. “Hold on. Look at that!”

Sephiroth stalks toward the entrance to the village, followed by two uniformed soldiers and —

a familiar mane of jet black hair.

Aerith inhales sharply, as though the air has grown thin around her, and it _feels_ thin. She latches onto the white fence behind her, digging her fingernails into the wood. She had banished his memory from the forefront of her mind as soon as she felt him return to the Lifestream, buried it deep within her, because she had grieved too much in twenty-one years and had nothing left for him but a few private tears that soaked into the soil of her flowers. And even then, she denied it to herself — pretended that she was wrong, that it hadn’t been his soul. That he had run off with some other pretty girl. That the job had been his last, that he had had enough of SOLDIER, and had gone wherever the winds took him. Even if he had gotten tired of her, at least they would have had the chance to reunite one day.

But seeing the ossified grief in his parents’ eyes in Gongaga had been the proverbial nail in the coffin, though she said nothing to Cloud or anyone else. Not even Tifa.

“Zack.” She whispers the name before she can stop herself. His name rolling off her tongue feels strange, almost inappropriate, like it’s the name of someone she’s never met.

Cloud’s head snaps toward her. “That’s Zack?”

“It is.” She bites her lip.

“Stop it, Sephiroth,” Tifa says, eyes narrowing into a glower.

Sephiroth — or the vision of him, in any case — sneers before disappearing in another flash of white light. Cloud begins to move across the path toward Aerith, but stops midstep, hesitating.

“When you told us what happened back in Kalm, I thought it was strange,” she admits. “Your story sounded so much like his. First Class SOLDIER, joining Sephiroth on a mission…”

He waits for her to continue, but she can’t bring herself to say anything else. She’s already said too much. It turns out that she can’t, even if she wanted to; another brutal flash of light engulfs them and, when it recedes, immerses them in the ruthless inferno consuming Nibelheim. Flames dance sensually across the theater of the sky, black and orange forming a gruesome gradient against a foreground of gore.

For the first time in five years, Aerith understands.

“I can’t watch this,” Tifa says, a sob brewing in her throat. “Don’t look, Cloud.”

The phantom image of Zack darts out of the Shinra Mansion, scanning the premises frantically before running over to an older man tending to the fallen. The man tells him to check one of the houses for survivors and he storms into one of the burning cottages without hesitation.

“It’s just an illusion.” Cloud runs a hand through his hair over and over again, the casual act growing more fraught with each repetition until strands of hair stick out every which way, frayed and frazzled.

Aerith wanders over to the wounded man on the ground — now dead, she realizes with a small gasp.

“I know what you’re trying to say, Sephiroth. You’re saying I wasn’t in Nibelheim five years ago, right?” Cloud shouts with an accusatory glare.

Sephiroth reappears and faces Cloud, his expression stony and opaque. “You finally understand.”

“If you’re trying to confuse me, it isn’t working. I remember — I remember the heat, and the panic, and the pain.”

“How interesting that you think so. You’re a puppet. A vessel. Your memories amount to nothing.” Sephiroth’s lips twist from a scowl into a gleeful smirk. “You may choose not to believe it, but what I’ve shown you here is the truth. What lies in your memories...that is the illusion.”

Aerith looks from the two of them toward Tifa, whose pained expression twists into her heart like a dagger. She was there that day, wasn’t she?

“Why are you doing this?” Cloud asks.

“I wanted to remind you of who you really are: the tool that gave me the Black Materia that day. Hojo would drop dead in shock if he knew a failed experiment would prove so useful.”

Cloud grits his teeth. “What does Hojo have to do with me?”

“Oh? Do you really want to know? Hojo assembled you bit by bit after Nibelheim burned to the ground. Just a half-baked clone made of Jenova cells and Mako.”

Tifa approaches Cloud and stands behind him.

“Don’t listen to him,” she urges. “What he’s saying about Hojo isn’t true. Our memories…”

Cloud wipes the back of his hand against his forehead. “I’m not worried about it.”

Sephiroth appraises the three of them with narrow eyes as a predator does its prey — searching for weaknesses, oversights, exposed wounds.

“You’re scared, aren’t you, Tifa? If those words aren’t true, they shouldn’t affect you like this.”

He does to their minds what Shinra did to her body.

“Stop it,” Aerith says quietly.

Sephiroth glances at her with sinister delight. “So you’ve decided to speak up. You have a question, don’t you? You’re wondering why she hasn’t said anything if she was there that day.”

“She doesn’t have to say anything,” she counters, wincing at the lack of conviction in her voice.

“You’re right. It wouldn’t be fair to make her tell the truth while you get to keep your secrets,” he taunts.

Cloud and Tifa both look at her — Tifa with suspicion and Cloud with confusion.

“Well, Aerith? Shall I let them see for themselves? Then we can move on to Tifa.” He laughs. “You would all tear each other apart.”

Her heart leaps into her throat and she shrinks against the fence. They’ve already cast aspersions on her and her relationship with him, and now they’re going to abandon her, and she’ll be alone like she was before, and she should be used to it, but she isn’t anymore and doesn’t want to return to that place again —

Tifa quirks an eyebrow and tugs on her glove. “What is he talking about, Aerith? First Zack, now Sephiroth.”

Cloud frowns in her direction. “I thought you said you didn’t know Zack?”

Flustered, Tifa balls her hands up into fists, her eyes shining like garnets in the light of the flames. “I don’t! I just heard her talking about him.”

Sephiroth disappears once more. Cloud looks at Aerith; she shakes her head. What could she say to him?

Crestfallen, he walks toward Tifa and hangs his head.

“Listen, Tifa. Forget about Zack for a minute. I may get confused about my past — even who I am. Sometimes it feels like my memories are all tangled and I don’t know how to take them apart. But when you said, ‘long time, no see, Cloud’ — you have no idea what that meant to me. You grew up with me; it’s your opinion that counts.”

“That’s not true...no, that sounds wrong. Look, I need some time. I don’t know what to say right now.”

That irritates her, but it shouldn’t. She is just as culpable as Tifa. They both cradled their truths to their chest in an effort to ameliorate his pain.

“Don’t blame Tifa,” booms Sephiroth’s sonorous voice as he materializes once more.

Aerith sinks deeper into the ocean of her own thoughts, their voices growing faint and muffled. What do they think of her now? Why does she care so much? When she’s broken the loop and they’re reach the end of their journey, they’ll part ways, no matter how she feels about it. She’ll go back to selling flowers to sleazy men on the curbs of the slum streets. Or maybe she’ll flee and settle down in Costa del Sol and relish in the clean air and sparkling waters that she could never dare to dream of in Midgar.

But flowers wouldn’t be so special there, would they?

Someone touches her shoulder. A gloved hand holds a photograph in front of her.

“Look, the last picture of Zack before he became another failed experiment. Does it make your heart ache, sweet Aerith?”

“...I’m not looking at that.” She jerks her head away and squeezes her eyes shut, but he seizes her chin with his free hand and the abruptness of it prompts her to open them.

And there it is — Zack’s glistening grin, wearing his cross-shaped scar with far more pride than its origin should allow. Sephiroth, her version of him, as stern and staid on the surface as he always was. What once had been beguiling was now besmirched and blemished.

“Does it make you wish you could go back? Be honest. It’s just you and me right now.”

His breath is hot against the shell of her ear; strands of hair brush against the back of her neck and send a shudder coursing down her spine. She hazards a glance toward where Cloud and Tifa had been standing; they’re nowhere to be found.

“Do you wish you could love like that again?”

He moves his hand away from her chin to stroke her braid, his fingers tangling themselves loosely in tendrils of hair.

“Or do you still…?”

She swats the hand holding the photograph away with a frustrated cry; she blinks and the hand is gone, as is the one that had been caressing her hair. Cloud and Tifa have resumed standing in their previous spots, looking duly flummoxed.

Aerith strides over to Cloud. She wraps her fingers around Cloud’s thin wrist, just above his bangle, wincing at the cold and clammy sensation of his skin against hers.

“Cloud, you know I wouldn’t say anything just to hurt you.”

“I don’t want to believe that you would. But I don’t know what I should or shouldn’t believe anymore…”

Tifa pivots away from the both of them. “I feel the same way, but we’ll have to figure this out later. We don’t have time.”

Aerith sidles up next to her, lowering her voice. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She glares. “I have my reasons.”

“You’re being selfish!”

“And you aren’t?”

Aerith rubs her temples. “This is what he wanted. To drive a wedge between us.”

Her glassy eyes reflect the carnage surrounding them.

“...I guess we can’t let him get what he wants,” she concedes.

* * *

They’re not alone when they materialize in the crater’s innermost chamber. She recognizes Rufus Shinra, and the older man with a narrow face seems familiar, but the woman is a stranger to her. It’s too much for her — it’s too much while her eyes are still trying to adjust from the crepuscular fire to the brilliant blue light bathing the sanctuary. She takes her staff out nonetheless; she can’t predict what will happen here.

“How did you get here?” shrieks the blonde woman.

Tifa appraises their new guests with a critical eye. “Sephiroth. And that’s what you’re here for too, right?”

“Things are about to get rough here. You should just leave it all to me and get out of here,” Cloud drones.

Rufus narrows his eyes. “Leave it all to you? I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

“This is where the Reunion’s going to take place. The beginning and the end.”

An image of Cloud above her, straddling either leg, as he halfheartedly brought his fists down upon her flashes behind her eyes. She darts over to him, forgetting her fear for an ephemeral moment.

“Cloud, you have to fight. You have to fight whatever’s happening,” she begs, gripping her staff with one hand and his bare shoulder with the other.

He shrugs her hand off of him. “Sorry. Just...sorry.”

Her face falls. It was an exercise in futility from its conception. Spurned once more, she retreats. Tifa’s pleas melt into white noise.

Footsteps boom throughout the room. Barret barrels into the chamber, cheeks flushed red. “Hey! I’m here to help, too!”

Cloud’s mouth twitches in apparent surprise at his entry. He inhales sharply and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, the embodiment of agony. He takes a step toward Barret and stops, repeating the process until he’s vis-à-vis with Barret, whose expression rapidly morphs from determined to bemused.

“You have the Black Materia?”

“Uh, yeah. ‘S right here in my hand.”

“I’ll take it from here, Barret. You can give it to me.”

Cloud hangs his head, defeated, even has he extends his hand toward Barret.

He raises an eyebrow in turn. “You sure you’re all right?”

Cloud nods.

“Then you can have it. Pressure was on the whole time I had it.” He surrenders the materia, dropping it into Cloud’s outstretched hand.

Aerith’s heartbeat stalls as her lips hang open. Does he realize what he just did? For all his good intentions, does he not see that the Cloud standing in front of them isn’t their Cloud?

“Thanks for everything, everyone.” He clenches and relaxes his fists in a slow, deliberate rhythm, as if having something to do with his hands will dull his psychic pain. He casts his lackluster eyes — an ocean lacking the gleam of the sun — over to Tifa. “Especially you, Tifa. Even after how good you were to me. I hope you can meet the real Cloud someday…and then you can be happy.”

To say that he turns to Aerith would be incorrect; he pivots his body toward her, but stares directly at his feet.

“And Aerith…regardless of whatever happened in the past, I know you’ve suffered so much already. I’m sorry for only making it worse.”

She sees why Tifa sank to her knees, why she’s cradling her head between her hands in despair. She wants to do the same thing. Her wasted efforts taunt her — they taunt her, just like he did, just like he does —

He floats far above them. Aerith tips her head back to look up, squinting at the scintillating light filtering through the snarled roots. He hovers near something — it looks like a large chunk of ice, nestled among the growth. She angles her head and makes out the shape of a human encased in the slab.

Cloud reaches inside the cocoon and proffers the Black Materia in one hand and the White Materia in the other. The earth begins to shake beneath their feet as debris rains from above.

A thick fog clouds Aerith’s mind, blurring her vision and blunting her senses. Her knees knock together — she has nothing to hold, nothing to steady herself. Cloud is giving the Black and White Materia away and it’s all but an inevitability.

“Tifa,” she pleads, stumbling over to her and clamoring for purchase on her shoulder. “Tifa…”

Tifa looks from Cloud down toward Aerith, who sinks her fingertips into Tifa’s soft flesh, unable to summon the strength to grip it. Her bones turn leaden, her feet unable to support them, and she shakes and slides limply against Tifa toward the wintry, frostbitten earth. She throws her distrust to the wind and wraps her arms around Aerith, cradling her, her eyes a retracting and expanding kaleidoscope of panic.

It’s true that Tifa knows better than to pity her, but Aerith finds herself clinging to the shimmer of sympathy in her tears like a tether in the tempest.

“We have to get going,” Tifa says, lifting her up. Sure enough, the members of Shinra and the rest of their party rush toward a narrow pathway in the cavern toward the back of the chamber.

Aerith trails behind her, cursing her own sluggishness. Something is wrong, terribly wrong, but she can’t piece together what it is or why, and even as she attempts to quicken her pace, she goes slower still, as though she were wading through a thick pool of gelatin.

_We’ve run out of time. This is as much as We could give you._

There’s nothing left. Her legs fold and she crumples onto the gravel, curling up and wrapping her arms around herself.

She doesn’t see the spear of rock descending from above; she doesn’t need to.

* * *

When she wakes up in Gongaga, it’s of her own accord. Tifa and Barret are nowhere to be seen; Cloud sleeps, still as death, in the bed beside her. Gingerly, she reaches an unsteady hand toward the back of her head, feeling for glass. Her nail taps against it with a quiet clink.

She feels no relief.


	7. VII. Invidiosa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> → wow, one month turned into four! i apologize. i’ve been tackling some trying circumstances at my day job for the past few months, leaving little room to write more than the occasional short piece. as amateurish as it is, this work is my baby and i don’t want to give it anything less than my best, hence the long delay in getting this up. i will be returning to my regular biweekly posting schedule after this.  
> → a bit of a slower and shorter chapter, which is partially what accounted for the delay — i tend to get frustrated when i can’t go at a breakneck pace haha

_Zack sidled up next to him as they weaved through the labyrinthine streets of the slums._

_“So? What do you think?”_

_He pressed his lips into a thin line. What did he think, indeed? His cynicism had predisposed him toward expecting the worst. It had been no small feat to conceal his surprise when he saw that she was, for all her quirks, an average girl — sharp and sociable, pretty, pleasant._

_The scent of rosemary danced with the smell of sulfur. She hadn’t remembered him — or, if she had, she hid it masterfully. This single meeting had made clear that she was skilled at burying her vulnerabilities like seeds beneath the soil._

_She had been breaths away from asking a question, one she felt might offend him. His mind swam circles around the possibility of it, of what it could be. He stowed his curiosity away for the next time they would meet._

_People tensed around them as they approached the Sector 7 train station. Their muscles contracted, eyes shifting in distrust and disgust, as though he were the sole arbiter of their misfortune. Gone was all the reverence of the upper plates, supplanted by skepticism. Such scrutiny was humbling, in a way. Had his destiny been the slightest bit different, he might have ended up as one of them, casting aspersions upon his oppressors as he grasped for some abstract_ raison d’etre _to cope with his existence._

_“Hey, you good?”_

_Zack’s voice tethered him back to the present. They had reached the platform. Thrust out of his thoughts, Sephiroth crossed the threshold into the train car as Zack followed suit._

_“Do you need my approval to continue seeing her?” he asked, answering the initial question. He curled his hand around the rail and gazed out the window at the city. “That’s a burden better suited for your parents.”_

_Zack grimaced. “By the time that happens, we’ll be married with kids!”_

_Sephiroth clenched and relaxed his fist. Though they were clearly said in jest, something about those words singed him. Marriage, children. Haughty assumptions to make for such a fledgling dalliance._

_“But she’s really something special,” Zack cooed. “Who else could grow flowers in the slums?”_

_Yet, he couldn’t begrudge the boy his enthusiasm. Limerence had been a privilege not afforded to him and the time to experience it was long past. The train car ascended, speeding toward the upper plate, moving further and further away from her._

_It should have been enough. It should have been enough to see her happy, healthy, and safe within the confines of the church walls._

_Skyscrapers glimmered in the distance, their panels tinted pink and purple in a reflection of the nascent sunset. Had she seen a sunset? Had she seen rain, snow, hail? She was safe in her church, but at what cost?_

_The intercom announced that they had reached the Upper Plate 1 train station. Please disembark at this time. He turned to regard Zack for the first time since they boarded. His initial lovestruck expression had since morphed into one of unease._

_“You look troubled,” Sephiroth noted._

_“Do I? Weird. Guess I was spacing out too.” He chuckled stiffly and scratched the back of his neck._

_“I thought Angeal might have taught you better than that.”_

_His eyebrows creased in confusion. “Huh?”_

_“Touching one’s neck is the most glaring tell that someone is lying.”_

_“Was I doing that? I didn’t notice.”_

_“You can’t let your guard down.” He paused before taking a step toward the platform, away from Zack. “Not even around me.”_

* * *

It’s the same sky.

It’s difficult to comprehend and even more difficult to accept. Nothing has changed from the past five times. The contours of the clouds haven’t changed; the veiny cracks in the earth trace the same patterns they always did.

Aerith backs away from the dust-caked window and retreats into the bed, wringing her hands. She’s never been one to sit around and do such a thing, but it’s as good an option as any given the circumstances.

She’s tried to talk to the Planet. She’s begged, chastised, apologized, questioned, mourned — all to no avail. The Plant’s voice dropped to a distant cry dipped in honey: thick, murky, indecipherable.

She traces the stitching of the cotton quilt with a fingertip.

Should she return to the City of the Ancients? Would he no longer expect her to go back? Is that a risk she’s willing to take?

Should she recount her story once more? Stay silent? Go north again? Remain where she is? Should she fight?

Should she wait for death?

She grips either side of her head and writhes between the sheets at the assault of questions. A kernel of despair, once minuscule, grows unfettered — it grows until the fleeting thought crosses her mind of whether permanent death has become the preferable path.

She jams the backs of her wrists into her eyes. How could she even think of succumbing to those thoughts? There’s still so much to live for. So much to fight for. The only person who wins if she loses her balance on the precipice is him.

Aerith throws the sheets off the bed and strides past Cloud, the old wood panels crooning beneath her feet, before venturing out into the light. The scent of pine and dust clings to her clothes and percolates into her pores, inextricably intertwining itself with her.

She can’t stop a quiet “oh” from escaping her lips when it’s Vincent loitering by the front of the house — not Tifa nor Barret, like she had expected. He leans against the fence demarcating the village from the rest of the desert. His headband casts a grey hue over his eyes, rendering them a dull red, devoid of luster. The abrupt thought that Tifa’s eyes still sparkle even in the shadows crosses her mind. A frown flashes across Aerith’s lips. She’s suddenly grateful that he hasn’t averted his gaze in her direction.

“We were worried you wouldn’t wake up,” he says bluntly.

“I’m not that delicate.” She rests her chin in the palm of her hand. “Cloud wouldn’t be able to hurt me like that.”

He raises an eyebrow, still without looking at her. “You’re sure of that?”

The image of his trembling hands — the quivering blade — lingers in her mind’s eye. Her gaze flickers briefly toward the ground.

“I’m sure,” she says solemnly.

“Either way, we’ll be discussing our next move at the graveyard.”

“That’s a pretty grim place to do that, isn’t it?” she says, feigning concern.

“It’s only grim if you make it out to be.” Vincent removes his weight from the fence and stands up straight. “When Cloud gets up, bring him there.”

“ _I_ have to wait for him?” she asks, surprised at the indignation in her voice.

Vincent turns to face her with raised brows. She realizes now that this is the first time she’s ever truly looked at him head on. The knowledge that he’s harmless does nothing to soothe the prickling sensation darting across her nerves, spurred on by the intensity of his stare.

“I think you’d be a much more pleasant sight for him than I’d be,” he intones.

A blush blooms on her cheeks and fades as quickly as it came on. She opens her mouth to protest, but finds herself wanting for words.

“...We’ll meet you there,” Vincent says, shifting his gaze toward something behind her before turning on his heel and sauntering away.

The door had creaked open while she was preoccupied, revealing Cloud in all his harried glory. He squints at the light — a stark contrast from the darkness of the room drenched in pine and dust.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” she says with a smile that she’s sure is lackluster.

He folds his arms across his chest and looks off toward the graveyard where the others wait for them. She has studied his face during this exact moment so many times now, yet it’s only just now that she notices the faint darkness under his eyes, a light wine color that matches the bruises festooned across her stomach and thighs.

“How long have _you_ been awake?” he asks. Cutting straight to the chase, as he’s wont to do.

“Not very. Maybe a half hour before you got up.” She offers a noncommittal shrug.

“Are you all right?” He grimaces, as though he’s quashing the urge to appear concerned.

“Sure am,” she says. “What makes you ask?”

Something shifts in his gaze. A flash of pity; a dash of distrust. Aerith finds herself shifting her weight from one leg to another and squirming under his scrutiny. It’s not his opinion of her that concerns her. No, it’s the glimpse of something that churns her stomach — something that looks very close to — 

remembrance.

She laughs. It’s a tense and hollow sound, laden with static.

“Keep staring at me like that and I’ll have to see it as an invitation,” she says, suppressing her suspicions. If there’s one thing she can consistently enjoy, it’s teasing him.

“You’re different.” The strain in his voice informs her that his neutrality isn’t as organic as it seems.

It’s in her nature to deny and deflect, but she’s not as sure of what her nature is as she once was. He can’t possibly remember, but some part of him knows, even if it’s on a molecular level far beyond the realm of conscious thought.

“Maybe you’re right.” She slides her bangles up and down her wrists. “Maybe I’m different.”

Hurt flashes in his eyes. Had she not spent as much time around the members of Shinra’s army as she has, that hurt would have been hidden behind the glow.

“Is it — ”

“No,” she says, severing the line of thought before it can fully form. “It’s not because of what happened.”

Whatever his bones and blood may recall, what just happened to him is far removed from what just happened to her.

The urge to run is almost too great to resist. The urge to run from him, from them, from everything, it grips her — but she can’t outpace fate. It will come for her in the north, in Midgar, in the dry desert sands and the emerald green grasslands.

“Are you lying?” he asks, disguising the accusation as an innocent question. Just as he’s done before, unaware of it though he is.

“Is it worth asking a liar a question like that?” she teases, smiling despite herself. “I’m not lying, but it’s not like I would tell you if I was.”

He mimics her smile, setting off a spark of relief in her. “Maybe I’m starting to trust too much for my own good again.”

 _Again._ It’s difficult to believe that there was ever a time he wasn’t so cagey, so mired in secrets. It might be one thing that explains the spectrum of battling emotions that crosses Tifa’s face when she thinks no one is watching.

They walk in tandem, their fingers occasionally brushing. That once would have been a balm on her wounds and worries, but the evanescent intimacy of his touch is gone too fast for her to appreciate it. It’s temporary — as all things in her world are. When they reach the cemetery to join the others, it’s the same as it always was. Cid draped on the fence. Yuffie leaning against one headstone. Nanaki curled up in front of another. All of them trapped in the ironclad prison of time, whether they’re aware of it or not. Aerith hops up onto the fence, swinging her legs against the post beneath her. Cloud stands near the opening in the fence serving as an entrance, mirroring Tifa’s austere expression and pose.

Barret clears his throat, drawing the group’s attention.

“Now that we got the rest of our folks here...what’s our next move? Sephiroth’s got the Black Materia…”

Their images morph and distort before her. Their features grow indistinct, hazy. They fade into silhouettes of grey, shadow puppets portraying their parts in a grotesque play.

She checks out from their conversation — one she’s heard too many times — and retreats into her line of thought from before Cloud’s waking. She takes stock of her allies. There are the eight scattered about before her. There’s Tseng, who may be dead and disposed of by now. She bunches up the material of her dress into her fist.

Who else? She once had many more people she could count to be by her side. People who swore to protect her, and she would return the favor. Those people are gone, and the collective abyss they left in their wake swallows slivers of her each day.

“So,” the voice of Yuffie begins, indistinct and distant, “we’re stuck. Where do we go now?”

Her eyes widen. Someone’s been there all along. The only other person who understands the Planet as intimately as she does.

She slips away amid the shuffle and throws herself to the arid winds of time once more.

* * *

The trek to Cosmo Canyon is markedly more perilous than the journey to the north. She loses track of how many times she switches caravans, how many times she gets lost, how many times she has a near brush with desert creatures that could eviscerate her in seconds if they so desired. By the time she arrives at the foot of the stairs leading up to the valley, her eyes burn and her limbs move languidly.

The weathered wooden gate peeks out over the edge of the steps and against a backdrop of brilliant yellow — the last vestiges of daylight. The gatekeeper keeps vigil as always, eyes narrow with duty and skin leathery with age and sun. Making efforts to stifle her labored breathing, she ascends past the highest step and stumbles over to the gatekeeper.

“Hello, sir,” she says amiably, hoping that he recognizes her. For her, it’s been so long, too long to quantify; for him, it’s been a mere few days.

The gatekeeper tilts his head to the side. His dark eyes widen briefly — she stifles a sigh of relief at the gleam of recognition.

“Ah — you’re one of Nanaki’s companions. What brings you back here?” The man folds his arms across his chest. “And alone, no less.”

“I need to speak to Bugenhagen. It’s...important,” she says, trying to strike a balance between urgency and opacity.

The man scrutinizes her before turning to leave.

The wait is agonizing. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, all too aware of the passage of time.

When the gatekeeper returns, it’s with Bugenhagen in tow, bobbing along as he descends down the slight slope leading to the staircase carved into the mesa.

“Another visit? I’m more popular than ever, it seems,” he says with a hearty chuckle. His eyebrows shoot up in recognition upon setting his sights on her. “Ah, so it _is_ one of Nanaki’s friends. You’re the Cetra, aren’t you? Aerith. You’re by yourself, I see.”

“I had to come alone,” she says.

He pauses, hesitating. “Nanaki…”

“Oh, he’s fine,” she assures with a rueful smile. “They’re all fine.”

“That’s perhaps more concerning. Come, come. You have many questions, I can see that much.”

She follows him up toward the precarious cliffs where he’s made his dwelling. It feels as though months separate the visits — it’s only been days, as far as he’s concerned. She looks down at the village center from her vantage point on the highest shelf. The sunset stains the settlement in hues of rich ruby red. She tugs at her collar; her stomach lurches. A red so blinding, so reminiscent of blood, it reminds her — it reminds her — 

“Ms. Aerith?”

The pungency of iron, the dull glow of Mako — 

“Come back to us, Ms. Aerith.”

The sensation of a bony hand on her shoulder tethers her back to the earth. When she turns to face him, his brows are furrowed, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening in concern.

He shakes his head and quickly conceals the pity that flashes across his features. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.

“I can’t fathom the horrors you’ve seen.”

She silently trails behind him as they approach his modest home. He can’t fathom them, but he’s the first to recognize them. She appreciates that.

When they reach the front door, he turns the knob and nods, signaling for her to proceed ahead of him. She takes him up on that and crosses the threshold into the quaint dwelling.

He gestures toward the stools lining the wooden table and she duly hops onto one of them, folding her hands in her lap. A stale silence falls over them.

“For you to run from your friends all the way back here...something must be terribly wrong,” he says neutrally. The subtle invitation to elaborate isn’t lost on her.

She came all this way and it’s only now that she asks herself why. Something stops her from revealing her plight even to someone so sage, someone so attuned to the Planet’s possibilities. What was she expecting from him? Answers? Guidance? Empathy? Sympathy? Something in between, an amalgamation of all those things? She purses her lips.

“You’re like me — you understand the Planet,” she says before adding hastily, “kind of. And you’ve been living on it a lot longer than I have.”

“I’m too humble to say whether the former’s true, but I can’t deny that second part.” He strokes his chin pensively, hesitating.

The stale silence stirs, ebbing and flowing in thick and weighty waves around them as she gathers her thoughts. Bugenhagen waits patiently, studying her as she moves her arm to rest her elbow against the table and rest her face in the palm of her hand.

“I used to hear the Planet’s voice. I used to hear the Ancients. Now all I hear is screaming. Even when I block everything out and listen — all I hear is screaming.” Her confession spills forth from her lips like water from a spigot, frantic and fluid. She pauses, allowing her words to ferment, before adding, “That, or it’s so quiet that I can’t understand it.”

It’s as good of an introduction to her dilemma as any.

“If I were to lop off your arm right now, would you be able to calmly tell me what was wrong?” Bugenhagen asks, floating from the table to the window by the door. The red light has faded, supplanted by the dusty taupe of dusk. He flicks the switch by the door and the lamp above her comes to life.

She blinks, considering the question. For as many times as she’s experienced comparable pain, she never lived much longer thereafter to speak of it.

“I’ll go ahead and take the liberty of answering that for you. You wouldn’t be able to,” he says. “Even Shinra’s finest soldiers could only scream. The Planet is no different.”

The sun has completed its descent into the horizon, leaving them alone with the night. The moon hides from humanity, leaving but a void in its wake. The warm light of the lamp above them does nothing to scare away the solitude of eventide. She hops off the stool and saunters over to Bugenhagen’s place by the window.

“The Planet knows when the end is near and can only behave accordingly,” he continues. “Try as you might to understand them, those screams may only turn into whimpers.”

“I can’t stop until I save it,” she says, resting her fingers against the glass.

He mistakes it for simple determination. There’s no choice involved.

“It might already be lost,” he says, grief tinting his words.

Indignation bubbles in her chest and boils her blood. She runs her hand up and down the length of her arm until her skin is saturated with touch, numb to it. She isn’t sure what she came here for, but it certainly wasn’t for the suggestion that there’s no hope.

She stands up straight and juts her chin out. “I don’t believe that.”

“There’s no stopping a man who thinks he’s something more than that,” Bugenhagen says.

Aerith catches sight of her image in the glass pane. Dark circles span the circumference of her eyes. “It wasn’t always that way.”

His thin, grey brows shoot straight up. “Oh?”

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing. Someone I knew used to work closely with him.”

“You know something about him that the rest of your friends don’t.” He pauses for a beat, awaiting her confirmation.

Her fingers hover above the center of her chest. A phantom pain presses on her ribs. Her eyebrows crease together in vexation.

“I thought I did,” she admits.

He falls silent, seemingly comprehending the implication of her reticence. Outside the window, the stars sparkle with unusual brilliance, anxiously compensating for the absence of the moon. Their reflections shift in the lens of Bugenhagen’s spectacles.

“Everyone has something sleeping inside them. Even you, Miss Aerith. For some, that something never wakes up. For others, all it takes is the shadow of an idea, or emotions eclipsing their reason.”

“What can I do?” she asks quietly.

He turns to her, the star-studded lenses concealing his eyes. Wrinkles run through his face, rivulets of time.

“If you have any hope of overcoming madness, you must either tame it or meet it where it stands. Brute force or simple cunning will not do.”

She puffs out her cheek. “That’s pretty cryptic.”

He places a hand on his chest and throws his head back. “Ho ho hoo! I didn’t take you for a woman who wanted the answers handed to her.”

“Hey! That’s not what I meant,” she objects, planting her hands on her hips.

His cheeks flush with mirth. “Now, now, I know that. Your heart is telling you to show him reason and you want to hear that it’s the right thing to do. Am I wrong?”

She bristles. He read her as quickly as one would an open book. The itching, paranoid thought that the others might be able to read her as well crosses her mind. Aerith turns her attention back towards the window and swipes her finger across the thick layer of dust caking the sill.

“If you fail, what shall you do?”

“Try again, or try something else,” she says without missing a beat. “But I guess I wanted to know...if it really does all rest on him.”

Bugenhagen regards her with something that can only be described as the cousin of pity. “It appears that way, but you might be able to bring him back to us.”

Her eyelids flutter shut, her soul soaked in a potent mix of memory and debility.

“Sleep, Miss Aerith. The Planet won’t crumble while you slumber.”

She opens her eyes and he gestures to the sofa. The prospect of sleep seduces her and she nods with a grateful smile.

It’s only when she’s settled in and he’s begun to float away that she hears, all too quietly, him muttering under his breath.

_“Bring him back...back to what?”_

* * *

Sleep is an elusive pleasure that night. Aerith wakes up just as the midnight blue hue of the sky morphs into a glaucous canvas, still before dawn. Her head falls back onto the pillow. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing her body to salvage the last few precious minutes of rest that she can afford before she makes her next move.

But her body doesn’t obey and her perfidious mind can’t stop itself from churning through the possibilities of what’s to come. She groans and throws the blanket off to let it drape over the sofa. She wanders toward the window. The sky grows brighter and richer with each passing minute.

“You’re quite the early riser.”

She doesn’t turn her head at the sound of his voice. “There was a lot on my mind.”

The sunrise sweeps across the canyon, painting it in colors that Aerith hardly knew existed before escaping Midgar. The village awakens slowly; people mill about on the cliffs below. In the distance, silhouettes of birds sail across the saffron skies.

“It’s so beautiful,” she says, voice cracking with awe and anguish.

He hovers over to her place by the window. 

“Protect it, Miss Aerith.”


End file.
